


Potent Circumstances

by TigerMoonBETA



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 'Eighth Year' fic, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Enemies to Lovers, Fighting, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Most Of The Stuff Is Just Mentioned/Implied, Not As Dark As It Seems!- just making sure I tag everything, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Recovery, Sexual Tension, Suicidal Thoughts, hopeful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2019-09-29 15:37:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17206100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TigerMoonBETA/pseuds/TigerMoonBETA
Summary: Draco doesn’t know why he’s here. Back at Hogwarts. Obviously to take his N.E.W.T.S, but what good will that do him in a world that sneers in his face. Something about his trials but he’d sat through them a million miles away. Draco had been there physically but not there enough to feel like the ‘yes’s and ‘no’s coming out of his mouth were his own, not enough to hear what they’d decided on for him and the rest of his family and nobody bothered to fill him in.But now he’s too volatile to use magic and Harry Potter’s got this thing about him that makes Draco’s skin crawl.





	1. I

_ I do believe, _

_ Induced by potent circumstances, that _

_ You are mine enemy _

 

He’s not the same as he used to be. Nobody is. All empty shells of themselves wandering the castle so hollowly it’d be easy to mistake them for one of the many ghosts haunting the premises anyway. But that’s the last thing Hogwarts needs. More ghosts. 

 

It’s been a week. Maybe two. Maybe even three, but Draco knows it hasn’t been a month yet. If it had been a month, he’d already be hearing the hype over Halloween which seemed to flood through the most enthusiastic students from even as early as the first of October. But maybe it has been a month and he’s just not listening for the autumnal buzz. Maybe nobody is buzzing at all, nobody can bring themselves to buzz only a few months after such a bloody battle. He hasn’t been very good at listening lately. All sounds seem to meld together, all muted and fuzzy as though he were underwater, constantly suppressed by the weight of an ocean. Or sometimes the noise is drowned out by the steadily growing crackle of a fire until it consumes him whole and he’s shaking and all he sees is red, despite the chill everyone else feels.

 

It’s hell being back here. Not the same kind of hell he’d been living through for the past few years of his life. But it’s hell all the same.

 

He does well not to dwell on that though, reminding himself that there are so many people here who have gone through worse, because of him. That some people are not even still here to wallow in the hell they’ve been put through.   
He doesn’t think it’s fair, but nothing really is. He’s a Malfoy. Suppose to carry that name with pride, it promised him a fruitful life, one that would warrant respect. Now it’s spit at him like poison at his feet. Where was the fairness in that?

 

There is none.

 

He’d done everything he was suppose to in order to protect the name. Been sorted into slytherin, excelled at everything he put his mind to, sans maybe killing Dumbledore, kept his icy eyes on his enemies-

Taken the dark mark. 

 

He’d done everything that promised would bring righteousness to him. It didn’t.    
When his mind dares to claim that he had been fighting for the wrong side all along, that muggleborns were just as worthy, and that he deserves everything that’s come to him, he shuts it out. Drowns it along with the rest of the muffled world. 

 

Right now he can’t handle that. Handle that everything that’s been spoon fed to him since infancy is wrong and a lie, because if that’s true then he doesn’t know who he is, and that’s the only thing that’s keeping him from slipping away and joining the real ghosts that haunt the castle.    
That and maybe the thought of the whispers that would follow of ‘coward’ and ‘weakling’. No sense in worrying about disgracing the Malfoy name when it’s nothing but shambles now anyway.

 

Draco doesn’t know why he’s here. Back at Hogwarts. Obviously to take his N.E.W.T.S, but what good will that do him in a world that sneers in his face. Something about his trials but he’d sat through them a million miles away, like if he’d dropped the memory into a pensive but the pensive was a lake and he sat suspended in the water. Draco had been there physically but not there enough to feel like the ‘yes’s and ‘no’s coming out of his mouth were his own, not enough to hear what they’d decided on for him and the rest of his family and nobody bothered to fill him in. Just packed up his bags, handed him his now restricted wand- which wouldn’t bloody work that well anyway because the unicorn hair that always supposedly represented the ‘good’ deep down inside him (Draco scoffed at that) had found its allegiance mishandled and was on its way to dying (they warned him about that but he never thought he’d lose his wand to Harry Potter)-    
Draco takes a deep breath.

The wand core needs replacing, or maybe he needs a new wand entirely. But the ministry likely won’t care for such frivolities. He’ll cross that bridge when he gets to it.

 

His wand can handle simple spells like accio and incendio, but anything beyond that is a lost cause. Not like the teachers would have asked him to perform such spells in class anyway. He neglects to volunteer and they neglect to call on him. 

 

Sliding into an empty seat in the back, Draco sets his things down without flourish, knowing it will be pointless if he tries to focus on the lesson. Ever since he got back, ever since the battle really, things felt farther away and harder to concentrate on. He wants to pass his exams but he’s not desperate to the point where he’ll ask for help. Not yet anyway. 

 

Pushing a strand of hair out of his eyes- it’s grown out again, not unlike third year and he’s too lazy to cut it, unless it gets to being reminiscent of his father- Draco sets his resolve on taking notes, letting the words come into his ear and guide his quill. Hopefully it’ll be enough for him to study from later, when he’s not feeling so restless, but that’s almost always. 

 

When the other students pick up their wands, he lets his quill fall, and lets out a quiet sigh. 

 

More people had returned than he expected. It seems that, just like him, there was no better place to be. This place was home, despite all that had fallen upon it. 

And of course he watches Harry. And Ron and Hermione. It’s not as bad as before. He’s not stalking, no prying or eavesdropping. Sometimes he even has the willpower to turn his eyes away from the three. But not now. 

 

While his mind is away, pondering what exactly he doesn’t know, Draco feels a jolt of fear rip through him as Harry turns around and catches him staring. After all this time he still seems to know. 

 

Averting his gaze, Draco twitches and picks up his quill again, underlining important notes, his other hand shoved into his lap curled tightly into a fist. 

 

It’s not enough. 

 

“Care to try and join the rest of the class?” Harry asks, with no particular tone but it’s still restrained. Like he’s not sure whether he came over to pick a fight or be a good classmate. 

 

“Can’t,” Draco simply answers. He pulls his wand out of his robe and discards it on his desk. 

 

The other picks it up, giving an experimental wave and uttering the incantation that should be more familiar but isn’t. And he frowns. 

 

“Why haven’t you told anyone your wand is broken? Why don’t you get a new one?”

 

“People like me can’t just waltz into a wand shop and get a new one,” the blonde answers, only a little bitter. 

 

Harry falters. “Still,” he leans in and lowers his voice. “You sitting around and moping isn’t doing anything to help and is making everyone here a bit uncomfortable.” He slides the wand back onto Draco’s desk. “I’ll mention it to Mcgonagall.” 

 

He wants to have some kind of comeback. Words like ‘don’t you ever stay out of other people’s business?’, laced with venom like their old rivalry used to warrant. But he knows better. 

 

Turning away, he can feel green eyes burning into him, and the next moment they’re gone. But Harry Potter’s got this thing about him that makes Draco’s skin crawl. He tries to manage it, fidgeting slightly but that’s not enough. Serpents glide under his arms, eye twitching, he pushes his hand up his sleeve and brings his nails up to his inner forearm and attempts to soothe the prickling. Scratches his arm until it’s raw and red and blood gathers under his nails. It’s the Dark Mark. He can feel it like it’s still undulating. It’s long dead. 

* * *

 

Everyday Draco skips dinner, ignoring the way it makes his head spin, opting to study in his room instead. Chugging smuggled firewhiskey seems to help with the ache, even though he knows he really shouldn’t be giving them anymore reason to lock him up, it’s a vice all the same. 

 

It’s been four days since the incident with Potter and his wand- he keeps going back between calling him Harry and calling him Potter because some days he wants to slink away and pretend nothing ever happened, and some days he wants to wake up and hurl ‘Potter’ across the room like no one else ever could- when Draco is making his way down the hall to the library to fill in the gaps of information his notes are missing. Stumbling along as well as he can, Draco’s too busy focusing on the cracks in the stone and not falling over that he collides into someone’s shoulder. It sends him back a step and he’s about to open his mouth to apologize or maybe retaliate when his eyes and brain work together to register one word- Potter. 

 

“Got somewhere so important to be that you’re finally crawling out of your room, Malfoy?”

 

“Yeah,” he spits. “The library. Got someone so important to stalk that you’d skip dinner?”

 

Harry’s mouth pulls into a fine line, his eyes flaring before he replies. 

 

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

 

“Save it, you git.” Draco attempts to maneuver around him, to continue on his path, but not before leaning down to emphasize his point, hot breath shallow against the lenses of Harry’s glasses. “Didn’t I tell you to mind your own business?”

 

His robes billowing behind him, Draco thinks he’s managed to escape when a hand enclosed around his wrist, yanking him back and sideways into the wall. 

 

“Are you drunk?” Harry asks lowly, accusingly, of some scent on Malfoy’s words. 

 

“Not enough to deal with this.”

And he’s gone. 

* * *

 

He’s on his way back to his room, tucking parchment away, when Draco feels eyes on his back. Potter. Not even being subtle about it. Of course there doesn’t  _ appear  _ to be anyone following him, but Draco had put together that there had to be some way Harry followed him all sixth year without being seen. To the untrained ear, there’s no accompanying set of footsteps or restricted breathing. But the blonde hears it well enough, either unaware or hyper focused on the world around him. He’s hyper focused now, everything seems to be amplified, which means he’s not nearly inebriated enough.   
Nothing a quick trip to his dorm won’t fix.

 

Draco swears silently, hoping that once Potter realizes he isn’t up to anything, he’ll screw off and leave Malfoy to drown in his sorrows. Fat chance.

 

He slips into the eighth year common room, into his own space, and tucks a bottle of firewhiskey into his robes. And instead of resigning to his bed, the floor, or the bathroom, he finds his legs haphazardly carrying him to one of the last places he would logically want to be while drunk.

  
The astronomy tower.  

 

It’s not until he’s leaning over the edge does he realize it, the bottle half empty, and he wonders if he’d be doing the rest of the world a favor by pitching himself off of it.

Giving a haughty, but quiet laugh, Draco shakes his head and takes a step back. 

 

“Come here to gloat?” Potter spits, and suddenly Draco finds himself against the cold stone ground, pushed down by none other than the savior himself, and struggling to keep his bottle from spilling entirely, he lets out another pathetic laugh. It grows and grows until he’s cackling, holding onto his side with his free arm, something red and warm dribbling down his temple.

 

And Harry is pissed.

 

“Oh get up you blithering idiot! Fight back!...” Harry seethes. 

 

“Not a chance” is all he gets, with an amused grin. 

 

“What happened to you? To that attitude?” 

 

“What happened to that attitude? What happened to that attitude was it lead me down the wrong path and people died,” Draco hiccups, sitting up his brows furrowed and suddenly it’s not as funny as it was twelve seconds ago. “People died and I sat idly by regardless of whether I thought they deserved it or not, so now I’m facing the consequences! If I so much raised my eyes to you, let alone a fist or an insult or merlin forbid, my wand, I’d be in Azkaban before you could count to ten! So sorry if I refuse to entertain your childish games and schoolboy fights anymore Potter. Not everything is about you- not everyone can cater to your every whim!”

 

Harry’s eyes flicker with something fierce.   
“There it is. Knew you had it in you, you snake.”

 

“It’s not there,” Draco deadpans, lifting the bottle of alcohol to his lips and chugging whatever is left. “You could point your wand at me and I’d do nothing about it”

 

“You’d let people kick you while you’re down?” Harry breathes with some incredible disbelief, like the boy slouched before him is but an imposter

 

“Oh absolutely,” Draco nods. “If you let them kick you while you’re down, no matter how bad you are, you’ll know you’re at least above them.”

 

Draco tilts his chin up, the point of his nose catches in the light and suddenly Harry remembers the time on the train, where he laid petrified and Draco’s foot came down stomping on his nose, the crunching of bones, and he questions the validity of his statement.

 

“You should have kicked me while I was down,” the blonde continues, unsure of why but it’s probably got something to do with the mixture of firewhiskey and brandy in his system. “All bloodied out and draining.”

 

“I would never-“ Harry starts but Draco replies with ‘exactly’ and he thinks he can start to understand. 

 

“That’s why you and I are so different.” 

 

There’s a heavy silence, then Harry sighs.   
  
“What are you doing up here then, if you’re not celebrating that night in some odd way?”

 

“Celebrating?” Draco breathes, wrinkling his nose. “Honestly I knew you were dense but this-”

 

“I could do without the insults-”

 

“I didn’t want to do it, you know.”

 

“What?”

 

Swallowing thickly, the blonde looks at his pale reflection in the glass, not recognizing the face staring back.   
“I didn’t want to kill him. Surely you must have been able to tell. You-” he narrows his eyes, head swimming, trying to recall the testimony he sat through yet so far away. “You were here that night. You said you saw me lowering my wand. I didn’t want to do it, you must have known, so why would you think I’m celebrating?”

 

“I said you wouldn’t  _ be able  _ to do it. Not that it made you good, it just made you-”

 

“A coward,” Draco finishes for him. “Just like my father.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

There’s another silence, both boys- no, men- staring out into the eerie room. Then he’s reliving that night all over against, green flashing behind his eyelids and he’s worried he’s about to heave up the alcohol in his stomach all over the floor. 

 

“Well you’re right. Couldn’t even throw myself off this tower.”

 

“Dra-”

 

“You need to go!” Draco yells, struggling to stand, terrified of the first syllable that had come out of Harry’s mouth and too afraid to hear the second, afraid of what it might mean. He stumbles to the wall, holding himself up. “Get out!”

 

“You’re absolutely pissed, aren’t you?”

 

“I said go away Potter!” His chest is heaving, up and down up and down, getting heavier by the second. Nobody can see him like this. Especially not Potter. It’s weak and he’s already weak and everyone knows it but this is a final blow he almost can’t handle.

Pupils blown and his body trembling, Draco glances around the room, to the empty bottle in his hand, and then to Harry. 

 

He slams the bottle into the solid wall, glass shattering in sprays to the floor, until he’s left only with the jagged bottleneck and he holds it out, a weapon. It’s shouldn’t be threatening in the slightest, but he knows he can’t do any damage with his wand. The dazed look in his eye, and rigid stance seems to have instilled  _ something  _ into Harry though.

 

“Malfoy.”

 

“Go on and run to your little Gryffindor friends, get out and go away and let me suffer on my own! Go on and tell the world! But leave me my last shred of dignity. Fucking Saint Potter. Always needs to be somebody’s hero.” 

 

“Malfoy, you’re pissed and bleeding and-”

 

“And what? He shouts “And pathetic? And mental?”   
  


“And you need to put that down.” Harry gestures to the glass with his eyes.

 

“Or else you’ll do what?”

 

“Or else I might suggest to someone that you’re not coping as well as your grades would suggest. That between all that alcohol and those skipped dinners and bloodied fingernails and talk about pitching yourself off towers that you might need a mind healer before you’re even allowed to pick up a wand again.”

 

The room is spinning.

 

“Why can’t you leave me be?” Draco whispers, the words coming out crooked and trembling. “Is no amount of stalking enough? How many of my life debts do you  _ want _ ? You’re not my  _ friend,  _ you made that absolutely clear.” The bottleneck in his hand is faltering, lowering just like it did that night. “So let it go.”

 

At his hesitance, Harry makes his move, snatching the broken glass from Draco’s hand and sending it to the floor, to join the rest of the shards that crunch under his feet when he steps forward, pinning Draco to the wall. He’s too drunk to stop it, processing it only too late and by then there’s nothing.

 

“I know more about you then you think,” Harry murmurs.

 

“Oh, that I like being pushed into walls and floors?”

 

“That, and-” He mutters  _ accio dittany _ , and a small vial comes flying out of Draco’s bag from across the room. “You keep this with you for that arm of yours you can’t seem to stop scratching.”

 

Paling, the blonde says nothing as Harry soothes the cut on his forehead away, then slides the vial into one of Draco’s pockets when he’s done. 

 

The third silence of the night overtakes them, the taller of the two looking down and breathing heavily, trying to will himself not to see stars and wishing the world would stop moving like it’s suppose to. Saint Potter doesn’t seem eager to let him go.

 

“I-” Harry starts.

 

Draco wheezes, shutting conjured images out of his mind of what might have happened next if he were braver, but he’s a slytherin and more interested in self preservation. He pushes Harry’s arms off him, mutters “bugger off,” staggering to his bag and beginning his descent of the stairs. Not before they lock eyes, and Draco hisses “I hate you.”

* * *

 

The next time it happens, again, is entirely Harry’s fault. He’s stalking much like before, no doubt, because when Draco is on his way back to the eighth year dormitory, it’s like Harry knows his steps. He gets pulled into an alcove, but not without struggle. 

 

“Do you bloody mind?!” he spits, wrestling the hands off of his body. 

 

“Yeah, I do.”

 

Draco is taller, but he’s also weaker. His system running on not much else besides booze and sometimes bread, he can hardly put up might of a fight with Potter, lean but not so scrawny anymore. 

 

“What do you want?” he resigns to going still. 

 

“To talk. I want to know what the hell is up with you.”

 

“Seems you know well enough from what you told me that night.”

 

Green eyes meet grey, swimming with questions and panic and-

 

“Yknow I talked to Mcgonagall-“

 

“You told her?” Draco breathes, his eyes widening and a hand coming up to protect the mutilated mark on his forearm. 

 

“No, no. Not about that. About your wand. She said she would make arrangements with the Ministry.”

 

A slow breath in, a sharp exhale, and Draco is shaking his head. 

“You can’t  _ do that _ .”

 

“I’m- Pardon?”

 

“You can’t do that!” Draco shouts, as quietly as one can shout not to draw attention to their location. His hands are shoving Potter without permission, backing him to the opposite wall. “You can’t go around pushing me into floors and walls and making me bleed, and then being nice to me! It’s infuriating!” 

 

“You like it.”

 

“No I don’t!” He screeches. “I want you to leave me the hell alone!” 

 

“Fine,” Potter drawls, his gaze warm and challenging. “Then walk away.”

 

And Draco knows he has to. 

He spins on his heel, smoothing out his robes and almost proud of himself for resisting the challenge. Sure, his past self would have loathed him for walking away from a chance to get under Potter’s skin. But now it seems to be the other way around, as faintly as he hears it, it’s still there. 

 

“That’s all you’re good at doing.”

 

“What did you say?” Draco’s nostrils flare as he turns around again, red heat rising up his neck. 

 

“I said, that’s all you’re good at doing. Walking away.” 

 

Malfoy is on him before he has time to blink, a nasty right hook that sends his glasses to the floor, where the blonde steps on them with a sickening snap. 

 

Harry responds with a jab to the gut, knocking the wind out of the other boy, then unsurprisingly into the wall. His vision is blurry, oh so blurry, but he manages to get his hand around Draco’s neck. 

Draco is still taller, so his feet never dare to leave the ground, but he’s  _ choking _ , fingers clawing at Harry’s own trying to pry them off. 

Silver eyes search frantically, mortified, hoping that his weak flailing is enough to indicate this is a little beyond the line of what’s right and wrong and it’s definitely wrong so why does it feel so  _ right?  _

Harry gives a little squeeze, watching satisfied as the red creeps up from the other’s neck into his face, and then he decides to let go. 

 

The blonde is coughing, sputtering, rubbing the sore spots on his neck while he desperately tries to regain air. He sinks down, crouching, licking his wounds until the immediate shock has subsided. And he’s hoping the tightness in his pants will subside too, and that it’s just a side effect of the fighting, because anything else is too weird to process. 

 

“That you definitely can’t do,” he chokes out, voice raspy. 

 

“And why not?”

 

Instead of answering, Draco reaches out, grabbing the remains of the broken glasses into his palm. He stands, pressing them into Harry’s hold, before pressing his own body against the other boy’s. It’s enough to give a hint about the current state of his being- shaking and stiff with both anger and arousal. 

 

“See how you like it,” he breathes against the shell of Potter’s ear. And with that he’s gone again. 

* * *

 

He has to retire back to his room after that. Even though all the eighth year’s share a dorm now, Draco doesn’t want to be giving Harry anymore excuses to happen upon him. It’s obvious Potter has his routine down like the back of his hand, but maybe if he’s studying in bed instead of the library it’ll warrant some peace and more importantly, alone time. They can’t keep meeting like that. It’s imperative Draco takes every precaution necessary to prevent it. 

It makes his head spin to think about without any drinks helping him along. Neither is dignified but one would certainly cause more of a scandal than the other. 

 

Draco can only take thinking about Potter like that up until a certain point and he’s not quite sure what it means. He guesses he should have figured it out before he went mental and pressed his erection against Potter’s leg, leaving the poor git all confused, and now he’s paying for it. He likes to think of the fighting, spit insults, punches and kicks and scratching while he’s leafing through his notes from the day. It’s when that turns to choking and teeth on his neck and being pressed into walls and floors, and anything beyond that makes him queasy. 

 

Although he had been busy with  _ familial affairs _ and others such as  _ keeping himself and his parents alive _ , Draco had had his fair share of interaction with people at one point. Enough for him to know he isn’t repressed, sexually, never was, so this revelation about Potter isn’t as surprising as it should be. He couldn’t have afforded to give much thought to pursuing a bloke, since his family name wouldn’t allow it. But now that his family name has gone to rubbish, he’s allowed to consider it. 

 

Draco bites back a sigh, tossing his parchment and books to the side. He isn’t sure what he wants, but that’s probably something he should figure out before the next time he runs into the gryffindor bane of his existence. Preferably he’d never have to run into him again at all. But that’s not likely. 

 

After closing the curtains, letting his head fall back and shutting his eyes, it’s only a few moments Draco can handle of figuring things out before he gives up. An indignant huff, he stands dramatically and loosens his tie. 

 

And suddenly he’s hungry. 

 

It’s not by much but it’s more than anything he’s felt for the past few weeks. Dinner is still happening in the great hall, so maybe he can sneak some fruit from the bowl in the common room without any human interaction. 

No longer alight with frustration, Draco makes his way to the common room, almost guiltily, and snatches a green apple from its place. They started appearing there a week ago, and Draco tries not to think about who might be behind it as he bites into the apple with a sickening crunch. 

 

“Ah, so he’s alive.”

 

Draco swallows thickly. 

“Zabini.”

 

Shit. The place had seemed deserted enough when he entered, Zabini’s presence had totally eluded him, albeit he’s tucked into the corner with a book. 

 

Blaise studies him for a moment, then sets the book down. 

“You look different.”

 

“Excuse me?” Draco’s frowning. 

 

“Don’t get me wrong- you still look like shit. But it’s a different kind of shit than it has been.”

 

“I don’t know what you mean.”

 

“I think you do.”

 

They’re staring each other down, still quite a bit of space between them but Draco is not eager to get closer. 

 

“You’ve been drowning yourself in that swill,” Blaise continues. “But you don’t look plastered now. Even in class you seem like you’re high out of your mind. Right now though-“

 

“I’ve never been  _ high out of my mind _ ,” Draco clarifies distastefully. “And I’m  _ not _ drunk right now, thank you.”

 

“Good. You ought to keep it that way.”

 

“But you said I still look like shit?”

 

“Oh yes,” Blaise stands and crosses the room and Draco realizes he’s still holding his apple midair. “In the  _ Ive stopped repressing my thoughts and Im finally doing some thinking,  _ kind of way.”

 

The blonde’s gaze steels, but he says nothing at first. Instead, opting to set his apple down on the table before his palm goes all sticky, accepting that he’ll just have to eat around the bits that go bad. 

 

“Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be at dinner?”

 

Having nothing but the truth to tell, Zabini tilts his head. 

“She put me up to it.”

 

“P-“ Draco falters, his stony visage crumbling. “Pansy.” It’s not a question. 

 

“She misses you, you know.”

 

“I know.” He’s unable to meet the partially judgemental stare, unwanting to admit he misses her too so instead he tries hopefully. “Is she doing alright?” 

 

“I’d rather you be able to ask her yourself.”

 

“But-“

 

“You know how she feels about alcohol.” Blaise tenses, his voice curt but then warm. “You know her dad and what it does to him and how he gets. It’s not unreasonable she doesn’t want to be around you.”

 

“I don’t act like that! Not like her father! I need it to-“

 

“You need it more than you need us. You made that clear.”

 

“Blaise!” Draco hisses. 

 

“You’re not being sympathetic.” God Draco hates how  _ almost  _ cool and collected Blaise is. 

 

“No- you’re not being sympathetic! You know how difficult it is being back here! You deal with it your way so why don’t you let me deal with it my way!”

 

“Because you’re not dealing at all, Draco.”

 

Blaise turns on his heel, scooping up his book, then just as he reaches the doorway, he looks over his shoulder. 

“You think you’re alone but you’re not. Get it together. At least for her, or maybe your mother if you could stand to feel guilty about that.”

 

Draco is shaking. Shaking with  _ rage,  _ as it happens to be. His jaw is so tightly clenched, hands formed into fists, white hot anger so loud in his ears he almost doesn’t catch Blaise say ‘Oh, hey Potter,’ as he exits the common room, and the returning ‘Hey Zabini’.

 

Potter is the last thing he needs right now. The way his eyes light up slightly at the bitten apple on the table, until his gaze makes its way up to Draco’s face then he flickers with confusion and concern and panic and-

 

“Everything… okay?”

 

Draco doesn’t bother answering. He flees up to his room, slamming the door angrily. He doesn’t have a functional wand to perform destructive, or reconstructive spells, for that matter. All this pent up frustration and he doesn’t know what-

 

“Malfoy?”

 

He spins around, seeing Potter idling hesitantly in the door frame. 

 

“You will cast a Muffliato charm around me,” Draco answers, his tone dangerously even. 

 

“What?”

 

“Do it Potter.” 

 

He takes in the familiar wand movement, glad for once Potter has the common sense to follow through without questioning. Turning, he inhales sharply through his nose, and lets out an entirely too strained yell. 

 

The scream goes on for what feels like ages, and it’s the first time he’s had real clarity in his mind for the past few weeks as the stiffness and aggression drains away from him. He gives a kick to the bed for good measure (but without shoes, it hurts more than he’ll admit). Nothing muffled, nothing dazed, and it’s quite frankly very painful. By the end of it his back is hunched, face flushed, and throat raw. He wouldn’t be surprised by the suspicion of his appearance. 

 

Turning back around, he gives a half hearted wave, and Harry lifts the charm. Staring pensively, unsure if he should broach the room or not, he settles on “So, are you going to tell me what that was about?”

 

“Don’t see why I should,” Draco chokes out, coughing a few times. “It’s not any of your business.”

 

“No, but I thought-“

 

“You think too much.” He quickly cuts the other boy off, not wanting the conversation to turn to what ignored issues meant. “It’s Pansy. And Blaise,” he supplies, crouching down in front of his trunk and opening the lid. “They’re refusing to talk to me until I can function normally.”

 

“Normally?”

 

“Without this,” he pulls out a bottle of whiskey, holds it up in the air swirling its contents, before bringing it to his lips and taking a swig. 

 

“So you’re resolving that by… drinking more? I fail to follow the logic. And honestly, they’re not wrong. You’re a right wanker when you’ve had that stuff.”

 

“I’m a right wanker all the time.”

 

Harry shakes his head and steps over, plucking the bottle and vanishing it.

 

“Hey-!”

 

“It’s for your own good, if you want your friends back.”

 

Not finding the will to rise, Draco stays sitting on the floor, letting his legs slide out from underneath him. His head thunks dully on the wood of the bed frame. He’s so  _ tired.  _ So tired and every part of him wants to lash out, to send Potter reeling, but he’s not doing it, so there must be at least one part that doesn’t want to repel the company. 

 

“If you’re done being my little savior you can run off,” he says, no bite.

 

“Actually, I wanted to talk to you.”

 

“The feeling isn’t mutual.”

 

“But Draco-”

 

“No,” Malfoy pulls his weight off the floor and stands to his full height, which is being taller. “Spare me. I like to fight you and that’s something I know for certain. Whatever else you think this is, well then that’s your problem.”

 

“Yeah! It’s  _ you _ , you’ve  _ always  _ been my problem!” Harry grits. “Even before Voldemort came back- everyday it was you, doing something to make my life hell or say something against me or my friends. It’s always been you, you prat.”

 

“It’s not my fault you’re obsessed with me.” Malfoy smirks.

 

“I think the obsession goes both ways.”

 

The desire to start a fight is there, not as pronounced, but definitely there. It’s a good outlet, but there’s only so many times the two can tussle before they run out of steam and then what will be left?

 

“When will I be able to get a new wand?”

 

Harry deflates slightly at the question, his words no longer having an edge.   
“McGonagall says there will be two Aurors sent up to the school this weekend to escort you to Diagon Alley.” 

 

“Excellent.” 

 

Wincing slightly as he puts pressure on the foot he’d used to kick out aggression earlier, Draco returns to his bed. He’s hoping the dismissive tone will clue Harry to bugger off so that he can get more studying done. Partially immersed in loopy penmanship, there’s a few moments and he’s still not alone. 

 

“I really did want to talk to you,” Harry offers, closing the distance between them and tugging the bed curtains fully out of the way. 

 

“And I really don’t care.

 

“But we can’t just-“

 

“Look,” Draco deadpans, marking his page and closing the open textbook. “If you’re going to keep stalking me and initiating things, I reckon I’ve got the right to defend myself. Just stay clear of things like pinning me to walls and floors and choking me, and we won’t have any more problems.” 

 

“Problems? Is that what we’re calling it?”

 

Grey eyes flicker up, warningly. The glare is matched and not looked away from. Out of his peripheral. Draco can see Harry’s hand moving, reaching down and it’s wrapped around  _ his  _ tie. Green and silver contrasting against Harry’s warm skin, tugging slightly and Draco’s eyebrows shoot up.

 

“You’re a nutter,” he breathes, coming out more quiet and fearful than he intends.

 

“Maybe.”

 

The silk around his neck tightens, little by little until his breathing is strained and he can feel Harry’s stare trained on him.

 

“You said something about choking?” Harry smirks, then suddenly it’s a lot harder to breath and his knee is coming up onto Draco’s bed like he’s got the idea to get in  _ with  _ him, and Draco panics, ripping the other’s wrist away and sending him stumbling back with a kick.

 

“You plonker,” he wheezes. “Doing the opposite of what someone asks you to, climbing into someone’s bed with your  _ shoes on _ \- where were you raised?” And he’s trying so earnestly to ignore the flush on his face, or at least pretend it’s out of vexation. 

 

“In a cupboard,” is the answer.

 

They don’t sit and talk it out. Not like Harry claimed he wanted to at least, before rushing head first into things like a bloody Gryffindor. It’s silent nods and mutual understanding, that something is changing between them, that they should accept it, not deny it. It’s a  _ don’t get me wrong, I’d still love to beat the shit out of you, but you’re not so bad all the time.  _

 

“And Potter?”

 

“Yes, Malfoy?” Harry lingers in his spot.

 

“Vanish the rest of the rest of the alcohol in the trunk before you go.”

 

Yeah. Definitely different. 


	2. II

The bottles are gone. He hates that his eyes are all bloodshot. Red and veiny and his visage is  _ always  _ that of irritated. It’s a side effect.

 

“Why’re you doing it then?” Blaise asks cooly.

 

“P-“ And Draco wants to strangle and hurl himself across the room because he almost said  _ Potter.  _ “Pansy,” he finishes. 

 

Blaise grins. “She’ll be happy to hear that.”

 

“Yeah. She had better be,” he says, bitterly. 

 

* * *

 

 

He’s more twitchy than usual. Especially in his hands. Harry notices it in the way Draco goes to underline something important and it goes from being straight to jagged and he huffs through his nose. He’s snapping more, though only when he can afford to. And more often than not he’s got his head in his hands, pressing at the temples and face contorted in pain. Harry’s not sure but he thinks he’s seen Blaise hand off a potion vial to Malfoy in passing more than a few times. 

 

“What do you suppose is wrong with him?” Ron asks when he catches Harry staring again, instead of grilling him on it. But Harry knows better than to be embarrassed- if Ron has noticed something is up, noticed that Malfoy has gone from silent far away glares to anxious lashing and sweaty palms, then they’ve both been paying too much attention. Though he suspects for different reasons. 

 

“You don’t think he’s being a right git, just like he used to?” Harry asks. He doesn’t want to give it away. 

 

“Dunno. Maybe.” 

 

“How do you mean?” Hermione’s focused on the words in front of her, but her chin is lilting back as though she could be persuaded to direct her attention elsewhere.

 

“He’s been more on edge. And kinda, shaky too?” Harry looks up at Ron for confirmation- the ginger nods. “And he looks more frustrated when he can’t do something- no wand yknow? He grabs his forehead ‘til it looks like vein will pop right out.”

 

Ron wrinkles his nose. “Am I the only one who thinks it’s bloody weird you notice Malfoy’s forehead vein?”

 

“Shut it, Ron.” They exchange a shove. “Can’t be too careful when it looks like he’s about to hurl all the time. He’d probably throw up on me on purpose.”

 

“That’s odd,” she puzzles, already looking up from her book. “His behavior is…”

 

And she pauses. 

 

“What ‘Mione?”

 

“It’s like-“ she starts again, eyebrows furrowed in self doubt but Harry beats her to it. 

 

“He’s been drinking. Well. He stopped.”

 

They both stare at him, gears turning, and Hermione’s mouth draws into a thin line. 

 

“You know something you’re not telling us, mate?”

Ron tilts his head. It isn’t accusatory, and Harry is thankful for that. 

 

“I-“ he pushes up his glasses, and swallows thickly. “He’s definitely come to class plastered before. You _ can’t _ tell me you didn’t notice it. At first I thought I was being harsh but I-“  _ I confronted him in the hall by shoving him and smelling it on his breath.  _ “I smelled it on him in the hall,” he only half lies. “And…”

 

Ron’s eyes are wide. Hermione shuts her book with a snap, mechanically lifting her wand to cast a silencing charm. 

“And  _ what,  _ Harry?”

 

Does he want to spill these secrets? They’re not entirely his to share but these are his two best friends, they have very few secrets between the three of them and Harry can’t help but think of how relieved he would feel if he let the words spill from his tongue. 

 

“And I followed him up to the Astronomy Tower one night. He was totally mental, talking about throwing himself off it all while holding a half empty bottle- which he tried to threaten me with by the way. And I ended up in his room the other day-“

 

“You what?!” Ron all but shouts, eyes now bulging and his girlfriend shushes him despite the charm. 

 

“And he had a  _ whole trunk _ full of the stuff. Asked me to vanish it.”

 

Heaving out a sigh, as though a weight was lifted, Harry runs a hand through his hair. It was easy enough to leave out the parts he doesn’t want them to know- to find out. None of it was technically a lie.

 

“And just when exactly were you planning on telling us? Or Madam Pomfrey? Or any adult for that matter?” Hermione is gesturing wildly. 

 

“We’re all basically adults anyw-“

 

“You do know this is not a joke?”

 

Harry pales. 

“Yeah but-”

 

“Withdrawal is serious Harry.” Her look isn’t angry anymore, for the most part it’s sympathetic. “You really didn’t know? And even if not then, throwing himself from a tower does  _ not  _ seem like a Malfoy thing to joke about.”

 

“Well, sorta,” Harry stutters out. “But I didn’t think-“ 

 

“You didn’t think Malfoy could ever be serious about hurting himself?”

 

“Not really. Not that much.”

 

“Better safe than sorry.” It’s resolute, it’s final, and suddenly Hermione is pushing herself back from the table, standing in the way they know means long purposeful strides and a jaw set in determination. He can’t let those strides be toward Malfoy. 

 

“Wait-“ He grabs her wrist before she can go. His eyes flicker over to the blonde head, sitting halfway across the library. “You can’t just go up to him!”

 

Ron watches the two, knowing deep down that when she has her heart set it’s very difficult to be persuaded. He almost pipes up to remind Harry of this fact, but chooses not to. 

 

“You want him to die?” the tone is cold, sharp. “You pulled him out of that fire and you want him to die to this instead? To kill himself?”

 

“No.”

 

“Well then  _ you  _ ought to fix it.”

And there’s no room to argue. 

 

Her stare is hard, unwavering,  _ guilt-inducing.  _

 

“Later. In private.”

And it’s a promise. 

* * *

 

 

And the opportunity does present itself. They’re in private for sure. It’s because Malfoy’s been more than irritated with everything and everyone around him- Harry can’t blame him, considering the physical agony he’s probably in. He chalks it up to looking at the blonde the wrong way, or to out performing him on an essay. 

They’re in an alcove again, fists flying but Harry can say he’s not the one who started it this time. And he’s so distracted by what it all means, what he has to do and how he’s going to say it, that Malfoy somehow gets the upper hand. 

 

This time it’s Harry pinned to the ground, Draco above him glaring predatorily. 

 

_ That’s enough of that _ , Harry decides. It’s all he can think to do really, he swings his head upward, urging it to hit as hard as possible and is rewarded as his forehead comes into contact with Malfoy’s nose. 

 

Bewildered, the sticky red liquid flows down Malfoy’s cupid’s bow, lips, and chin before he grimaces. He spits the liquid all over Harry’s face, splattering red all over the once again broken glasses, and rolls over onto his side, facing away from Potter on the cold stone floor. 

 

With a grunt, Harry reaches over, grabs him by the shoulder, and heaves him until they’re both facing each other. The blood takes a detour over Malfoy’s cheek. 

 

“Let’s get you to the nurse.”

 

Draco goes to laugh, then is stopped short by the pain. 

“You could fix this with an Episkey.”

 

“Not for that.”

 

The savior decides, he’s got to be the savior again. To make himself stand, to pull the other boy up, takes more effort than it should. 

Draco’s not resisting, but he isn’t trying much either. His hands cling for purchase on the inside of Potter’s forearms, halfway to standing, when he realizes where this conversation is going. 

 

“No.”

 

“Don’t be stupid. You need help.” 

 

“I don’t want her to know.”

 

“Who? Madam Pomfrey? Look I think she really doesn’t care. You-“

 

“Not her!” Draco hisses, his palms are all

clammy, grabbing Potter’s arms tighter in an attempt to stop himself from collapsing. 

 

“Then who?”

 

“My mother,” Draco says after a beat and Harry thinks he can understand. His expression isn’t stony, isn’t furious anymore. It’s almost, dare he say, soft. “If I go to Pomfrey for this the word will make it back home and she’s only got me left. I need her to think I’m being strong. She needs someone to be strong for her.”

 

“Well how about instead of pretending to be strong, you actually  _ be _ strong?”

 

“I’m not like you,” Draco seethes. 

 

“You don’t have to be like me to be strong,” Harry offers like it’s the simple thing and the world and god Draco wishes it was. 

 

Spelling the blood from both of them, along with the promised Episkey, he wraps a strong arm around the blonde’s waist to support his weight. Draco doesn’t protest, if only wrinkling his nose mildly. 

 

“You’ve got Auror’s coming in a few days,” his words start cautiously. 

 

“Oh please. Not like the Ministry would care what I’m doing to myself, as long as I’m not hurting anyone else.” And it’s probably true. 

 

“You know the Daily Prophet would have a field day with it though.”

 

As if Malfoy’s skin could get any paler, he blanches with a subtle shake of the head. 

“Yeah,” he sighs. They’re making their way through the corridors now, but it’s slow enough. “I can see it now. ‘ _ Malfoy family in shambles after the war!’ ‘Draco Malfoy: Alcoholic?’ ‘Youngest Malfoy follows his father into the deep end!’” _

Gritting his teeth, grinding his jaw, staring daggers into the empty air, Draco almost settles on pulling away but he knows he wouldn’t be able to stand otherwise. 

 

At this point it’s not even sarcasm. They are very realistic headlines, he can almost see them in all caps, black and white and for sale on every street corner. Maybe he has gone off the deep end like his father. Maybe he doesn’t even need Azkaban to go mad. The icy chill that creeps up the back of his neck every time his mind falls back to the past and he’s reminded of his guilt is comparable to the chill a dementor brings. 

 

“You’re not like him.” There’s no trace of a lie. “Not in the ways it matters anyway. You don’t belong in Azkaban and I’d hate to see you end up in St. Mungo’s…”  _ Or six feet under the ground.  _ “I’ll take you to Pomfrey and I’ll make sure she doesn’t tell your Mum.” 

Harry takes a shuddering breath, noticing that Draco is watching him speak not so discreetly from the corner of his eye. But his face is passive. 

“A few days in the hospital wing won’t be enough to take you all the way through it but… we’ll make it work.”

 

Draco only nods.

 

It’s the closest thing he’s going to get to a thank you, at least, for a while.    
The rest of the trip follows in silence, then Draco’s being set onto a bed, his fingers curl around the scratchy white sheets and he’s barely listening to the hushed but urgent murmurs of Potter. He doesn’t catch any words but he can easily imagine what they would be if he did.

 

“Alright, Mr. Malfoy-”   
Draco blinks and Pomfrey is at his bedside, and he can only catch Harry’s eyes once before he turns and flees, while Draco is stuck there.

 

* * *

 

The shaking gets worse before it gets better. The sleepless nights drag on even longer before they get shorter. The bags under his eyes go darker before they start fading.   
It’s hell, it’s absolutely hell, but whatever she’s giving him is certainly better than whatever Blaise had managed to obtain from who knows where. Draco would have brewed the stuff himself but, alas, his tremors hardly allowed him to hold a quill, let alone a knife. 

 

But now that his mind is clear, he can’t help but wonder  _ why.  _

 

“Take this,” she says, and he tips the contents into his mouth.

 

_ Why is Potter helping me? _

 

“Eat up,” she says, and he’s stomaching what he can. It’s not much.

 

_ Why is Potter being nice to me? _

 

Maybe it’s pity. Maybe it’s that he accidentally came onto Potter, or maybe it wasn’t an accident at all. 

 

* * *

 

Diagon Alley is bustling, and he keeps his head down, slouched between the two aurors. They’re no more excited to be there than he is, and so long as they’re not berating him or spitting at him, he thinks he can handle it. 

 

The door to Ollivander’s creaks open, and the witch at the desk has a touch of conflict that flickers across her features before the lightbulb goes off. 

 

“Ah, Mr. Malfoy, I presume? I got the notice a few days ago.”

 

American. 

 

He gives a hasty nod. 

 

“Right.” 

 

Smiling pleasantly at the aurors, and while she’s fiddling around with paperwork, Draco takes the time to observe. 

He hadn’t heard anything of Ollivander giving up his shop. The name is still attached to the building, so unless he’s polyjuiced- Draco chuckles to himself- this isn’t Ollivander. 

 

He’s got at least a head and a half on her, her skin toned olive and brown hair clipped nicely into a bob, bangs running across her forehead. Her gaze is just as warm as the rest of her. 

The haircut has struck him with a chord of melancholy- it reminds him almost too much of Pansy. But the likeness is gone when she brandishes a wand for him to try with lacking confidence. 

 

“Thank you…?” Draco trails off, staring pointedly at her face for a fleeting moment before taking the wand into his hand. 

 

“Frankie,” she starts, after a panicked pause. “Is my name.”

 

The aurors have their stare pinned on him now, their wands too. It’s more than a little hostile. But they’re the conditions and he won’t argue. 

 

Before he can do much more than twirl his wrist a few times, Frankie grimaces, and plucks the wand from his grasp. He’s still trying to figure out what the last one was made of, and why it didn’t work, when she’s shoving the next one on him. 

 

It takes about five wands in before the concern sets truly into the lines of her forehead, and as she snatched the sixth one from him, she sighs apologetically. 

 

“Sorry. I thought I’d gotten the hang of it. Mr. Ollivander says I’ve been getting better anyway.”

 

“He says-?” Draco tries. He wasn’t under the impression Ollivander had an apprentice, but it makes sense given the context. 

 

“Oh, yes. He’s in the back. Still likes to make the wands. He taught me lots. I think he likes to keep to himself a bit more now.”

Frankie offers a small grin and that’s how Draco knows, aside from her accent, that she  _ definitely  _ isn’t from around here. Nobody would smile at a Malfoy. 

 

“In fact-“ she’s gone as quickly as the train of thought arrives, returning once more with the old wand maker. He’s paler and more feeble, Draco knows in the way that can only come from an overexposure to Crucio, but still wise. 

 

“Draco,” Garrick says and Draco isn’t sure what to make of the tone. 

 

“Sir-“ His throat spasms. He can feel the months worth of apologies building and threatening to spill out. 

The wand maker’s eyes give him a once over and he’s turning, speaking to Frankie before Draco gets to wallow in his word vomit. 

 

“Are you sure you haven’t given him a Hawthorn wand to try?”

 

“I did, Sir. With different cores too.”

 

Ollivander shakes his head. But he’s twinkling. 

 

“No, no,” he tuts, facing Malfoy fully. “Too conflicted even for a Hawthorn.”

 

Draco sputters. 

“I don’t-“

 

“You’ll have to come back another time.”

 

“I’m sorry?!”

 

The aurors let out frustrated huffs. If this wasn’t a waste of their time before, it was surely proving to be that now. Draco almost feels guilty. 

 

“Your magic is in no place for a new wand. I can see it,” Ollivander gestures with his knobby, hard worked hands. “All over the place. It’s in quite a shape.”

 

“I don’t understand.”

 

“You need to sort yourself out first. Then come back. Wands won’t cooperate with a wizard in that kind of turmoil.”

 

There’s no way to argue with that. 

 

* * *

 

Not fully there, but figuring he had enough sobriety in him, Draco makes his way to the Great Hall upon his return that evening. Supper in full swing, he slinks over to his two Slytherin friends.

Pansy greets him with an uncharacteristically warm grin.

 

“Tell me all about it, darling.”

 

So he does. Rants all about the bloody wand shop, and how he couldn’t get a wand. Blaise is eyeing him, with a smirk that has only good will. Pansy’s got a hand on him almost at all times, just like she used to, skating up his back or mussing his hair- fiddling with his collar even. He lets her. By the time he’s done, her primly manicured hands have seemed to wash the edge away from him.

 

“Unbelievable!” Pansy shrieks.

 

Draco’s got his head resting on her shoulder, and although the overdramatics are jostling him, he can’t help but smile.   
He’s missed this.

 

There’s footsteps behind them.

 

Unwilling to lift his head, Draco simply switches the side he’s got laying on Pansy’s shoulder, his cheek squished against the cashmere. Her arm curls protectively around him when she realizes who it is, button nose pulled up into the air and baring her teeth.

 

“Potter,” Draco says, almost pleasantly.

 

“Got a wand?”

 

“No. Wouldn’t give me one.”

 

“Bloody- really? Can they not let things go? Do you need-”

 

“Now, now, Potter.” Draco holds up his hand. His companions watch only in unabashed astonishment. “They wouldn’t give me a wand because none of the wands liked me. Not because I was a failed Death Eater.”

 

They all tense up at the word.

 

“The wands didn’t… like you?”

 

“That’s what I said, wasn’t it?” He lifts his chin and Blaise can’t stifle his laugh. “I’ll explain more later, Potter. I trust you know how to find me, one way or another?”

 

From there it’s awkward stutters and nods, and Potter’s tripping over himself trying to get back to his Gryffindor friends. The lack of grace is probably from the sheer easiness that conversation held, or the way Pansy is holding him, or the remnants of their encounters not willing to be spoken about. Either way, once out of earshot, Pansy is cackling.

 

* * *

The door to his room glides open as he’s toeing off his shoes. The clench of his jaw is inevitable but when he sees the rounded spectacles and nearly matted hair, he’s not sure whether to tense up further or not. 

 

“S’ just me,” Harry says, noticing the strained shoulders. 

 

“Just you?” 

 

“Yeah. Wanted to hear about your trip today. You said you’d elaborate?”

 

“That I did.”

 

They’re taking in each other unsteadily. Hesitant twitches and Harry’s not really sure whether he should sit or stay standing. Whether this was a horrible idea or not. 

 

“Unfortunately it’s not very exciting,” Draco decides to fill the silence again. “I went in, Ollivander nor his awkward American apprentice could seem to place me with any wand. Said they wouldn’t cooperate. That I was-“

Draco bites the inside of his cheek. 

 

“That you were?”

 

“Too conflicted.”

 

“Too conflicted?” Harry repeats, drawing his eyebrows upward. 

 

“Something like that,” Draco stands, taking a few steps closer while trying to maintain some kind of approachable and non threatening. “I need to  _ sort myself out _ with what I want I guess. In life maybe. In my magic. Until then I’m living like a bloody squib.” 

 

“Well, I could help you.”

 

Something breaks. 

 

“Oh, no.” Draco takes a step back. “Oh no, that is  _ not _ what this is.”

 

“What  _ what  _ is?” Harry presses, taking a step forward. 

 

“Like we’re  _ friends  _ or something.” He nearly spits the word. 

 

“And why not?”

 

“Uh,” Draco snarls. “I don’t know, friends don’t pummel each other in their spare time.”

 

“And why do you pummel me?”   
  
“I like it,” Draco swallows. “It gives me a rush.”   
  
Harry steps forward again, slotting himself so perfectly against Draco and he curses their height. He’s got just enough on Potter that when he speaks next, Draco can feel the hot rush of air against the hollow of his throat.    
  
“I know something else that could give you a rush.”   
  
The blonde inhales slowly, his eyes pinned ahead of him.    
“Potter.” It’s a warning, low in tone.    
  
It’s a flurry of limbs and struggle, quite a commotion really, as they cross the room and Draco’s head hits the mattress rather hard.    
  
“You fight me cause you like it. Cause it’s easy,” Harry breathes, one hand coming up to curl around the blonde’s wrist. “And for what else?”   
  
“I don’t know.”   
  
“Assert yourself Draco. Make up your mind.” He won’t stray from staring into the ceiling, but he can feel Potter’s free hand trace up his jugular, feather light, and he almost keens. “Ollivander said you’re all out of sorts right now. I think you need to figure out what you want and take it.”    
  
Though trying his damnedest, he can feel the shortness of breath settling in, not aided by the way he’s effectively pinned with most of Harry’s weight keeping him there.    
  
“What I want?” Draco croaks.    
  
“Yeah.”   
There’s panic flooding him, coursing through his bloodstream, despite it being not much more than unfamiliar. There’s nothing predatory or expectant in Harry’s voice- Harry wouldn’t hurt him like this. In fact he’s lifted some of his weight, giving Draco room to breathe, room to think, although it’s a little hard to do that with blood rushing to his crotch.    
  
“I-“ Draco heaves.    
Calloused fingertips run gently over his hands, over his wrists, giving reassuring squeezes and he almost gags at how sweet it is. He’s not in the state of mind for this.    
  
“I want to say no.”   
  
“No to me?” Potter asks, but he doesn’t recoil, as if offended.    
  
“Yeah.”   
  
“Then do it. Assert yourself.” Harry pauses. “Do you want this?”   
  
“No.”   
  
And that’s all it takes. The shorter boy is rolling off of him, standing instead by the bedside, watching with an expression laced with patience as Draco tries to compose himself.    
  
“Good,” Harry nods. Draco sits up and pulls his knees to his chest, toes curling.    
  
“Can- can you leave?” Draco’s pulling at the collar of his shirt.   
  
“Did I hurt you?” He reaches out and Draco pushes his hand away, though not unkindly.    
  
“No.”   
  
“Did I push you too far?”   
  
“No-“   
  
“Draco.”   
  
“No. Maybe.”   
  
His nostrils flare, but a softness washes over in its place. There’s a glass on the nightstand nearby, he takes it, whispers an Aguamenti, and delivers the cup to Draco’s outstretched hand. 

 

“If so, it wasn’t on purpose. Will you be okay by yourself if I go?”

 

“Yes.”

 

The door shuts behind him, the water making its way down Draco’s throat greedily. Parched, lightly trembling, it dribbles onto his chin and it’s not until he’s done the full glass does he bother to wipe it away with the back of his wrist.

Tears coming now, forcing their way through in a hiccuping flood, the wetness clings to his eyelashes and pricks up gooseflesh.

 

He rolls over and cries for nobody but himself.

 

* * *

 

It’s hard when the world is so loud. When he can’t drown out the ghosts in sorrows or stick his head into the sand. They keep him all night rattling their chains, asking him what he wants and he wants to scream that he doesn’t know. 

 

Pomfrey keeps him on some potions, weaning off will take a while and that’s okay, but he knows how easy it would be to fall back into his old habits. And why he can’t let that happen. 

 

Pansy lets the words fall out of him in secret. Her nimble fingers comb through his hair while he speaks of all his worries. About what he wants and what he doesn’t know and how Potter’s gone all mad and cocked it up. He hopes that he can pull the silky black ribbons of her heart strings, to make her feel sympathy and to understand why he started self medicating so recklessly, that maybe she would hate him less for it. It’s selfish, but that is one of the things he never denies being. 

 

“Sounds like he’s coming onto you,” she notes dully. 

 

“As if that weren’t bloody obvious.” 

 

“Guess he’s not as bad as I thought.”

 

Draco flinches. “What?”

 

“Well I’ll admit he’s always been a tosser, what happened in the Great Hall was… surprising. You two held a real conversation,” she smiles at him, but her eyes are cutting crystals. “Plus if he’s got the hots for you, he can’t have awful taste.” 

 

“I don’t know Pans…”

 

“Look at us!” her hand grips his arm and throws it up like he’s won a trophy. “Gossiping about boys like normal teenagers.”

 

Draco ducks his head, wishing he could stuff it in the dirt. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks 4 reading. blease let me know what u think! i know there’s lots of fics like this out there but i’m trying to make it my own.


	3. III

“I’m sorry for earlier.”

 

They’re in the hall, on the way to potions when Harry comes up to him. It’s entirely unprecedented- an apology that is. The stalking? Not so much.  
The blonde has half his attention on leafing through his bag, the other half of his attention is on wrestling Pansy and resisting her attempts to push chocolate into his hands. So when Potter comes up behind them and speaks an apology, Draco nearly stops, causing what would have been an awful traffic jam. The last thing he’s expecting is an apology for earlier, when Potter acted so impulsively and Draco had to force him out for a good cry.

 

“That’s rich,” Pansy snaps, pearly white teeth grinning dangerously, a stark contrast against her deep lipstick.

 

“Pansy,” Blaise warns and Draco flushes- his friends doing all the talking for him.

 

“What? Boy Wonder here is going to have to do a lot more than apologize for one thing to mend and move past six years of rivalry. Eat the chocolate you prat!” she tries pushing the sweets into his grip again, ignoring the critical stares.

 

“It’s fine Pans-”

 

“She’s right,” Harry rests his hand on Draco’s shoulder as they keep walking, everyone tensing up but no one gets shoved. “And I really am sorry. Let me make it up to you?”

Looking over his shoulder, past Harry, Draco sees his two lackeys have fallen behind but only a few steps in order to let the exchange happen. If they hadn’t otherwise he knows the Weasel would have had a tantrum by now.

 

“Draco-” Pansy starts, grabbing onto his sleeve. She’s protective of him. That’s more than obvious. She’s coming around to the idea but clearly Potter isn’t entirely on her good side yet.  
_Even if he has good taste,_ she’d say _I don’t trust him. Not all the way. If he steps out of line I will not hesitate to-_   

 

“It’s okay,” he reassures her, touching her arm gently then carding his fingers through her black hair as he turns to Potter. That’s something special between them- it’s nothing something he’d prefer for others to see but it’ll be more than enough to encourage her that it really is okay.   
“Yes, Potter. You can make it up to me.”

 

“Brilliant.”

 

But it’s in the way he does it that throws Draco for a loop.

 

It’s later in that same evening- Harry’s hand is extended out toward his own but the worst part is they’re in the common room with no walls or tapestries to keep them hidden. In plain sight of everyone, he knows because he can feel Pansy staring amusedly into the back of his skull.

 

“Come with me.”

 

Draco stays silent for a few moments, keeping his expression level.

 

“Might I ask why?”

 

“I’m making it up to you. And you need a break. I _know_ you were about to hole yourself up in your room and study.”

And maybe it’s true that he needs a break but he’ll never admit it. His eyes are sunken with nightmare filled sleep and yeah, he’s loathing the idea of studying for a minute longer. A disheveled appearance is not uncommon among his peers, but of course leave it to Harry to notice when it’s at its worse.

 

“Alright,” he agrees, placing their hands together. It’s so new and weird and strangely unlike them.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Hurry on before I change my mind.”

 

They’re going up the steps, more than halfway there, still intertwined, when Draco finally realizes where the golden boy is taking him.

“Wait-“ he pulls back.

 

“It’ll be okay.” It’s more of a silent _you’ll be okay_ added on.

 

When they reach the top of the astronomy tower, Harry lets go and pulls something out of his robe. That something turns out to be a record player when he unshrinks it and sets it off to the side, fiddling with the needle.

 

“Is this… muggle?” Draco asks, the swell of music filling the space. And he tries pointedly not to spit the word out.

 

“Yeah. It’s classical though. Figured you could learn to like it, just a little.”

 

“You’re thoughtful. Why?”

 

Harry shrugs. He steps closer, though even in the dark Draco can see uncertainty written across his features. Like he’s not sure he should have brought the blonde up here.

 

With a shaky breath, Malfoy sets his hands on Harry’s hips to get rid of his doubt, Harry’s hands coming up to rest neatly on his shoulders. They fist the rumpled fabric of his shirt before going soft again.

 

“You’re quite tense,” Harry says and Malfoy replies with an indignant snort.

 

“Don’t be a git. You are too.”

 

“With good reason.” They’re not dancing- not really. It’s more like the swaying of a gentle breeze. A gust every now and then. “I’ve been worried about you.”

 

“I didn’t ask you to worry about me, Potter.”

 

“No, wait-“ Harry tightens his grip again, one hand sliding down to cradle Draco’s lower back in a way that would be cruel to rebuff. “I know. It’s okay. I seem to be worried about you all the time. Especially since sixth year. But this is for… entirely different reasons.”

 

“Would you say they’re good reasons?” Draco lifts an eyebrow.

 

“Reasons much preferable to those in the past, yes.”

 

It’s like that, they stay, at least for a few moments untouchable by all things except starlight. This makes him feel like gangly limbs and too tall for himself, rather than the confidence he can usually exude. Even more so when he deflates, laying his head down on Harry’s shoulder.

 

“My parents were never like this.”

 

“Hm?”

Right now Harry’s soft and willing and open but Draco knows better than to think he actively wants to hear about Lucius Malfoy.

 

“They were happy to be _with_ each other, and what that meant. Money and power and success. I suppose they liked each other well enough but,” Draco squeezes his eyes shut but he can’t keep them closed. Not when a sight like this is so close. “Minimal affection. Minimal love. Maybe when they broke the wine out of the cellar and put on some music, but then again maybe that was just love for fine alcohol and good tunes.”

 

“So you’re saying that you lo-“

 

“Don’t be crass,” Draco winces, pulling his head up. “I’m saying I’ve no idea how people do it. Care in earnest. I was never taught that.”

 

“Malfoy that’s…” For lack of a better idea, Harry’s hand cups Draco’s chin, his stubbornness and pride forcing him to look away. His fingers curl gently until their eyes meet, Harry frowning. “Malfoy that’s sad.”

 

The words come out but they’re hard to hear- not because of their truthfulness but because his heart is thudding _loud,_ an erratic rhythm in his ears. And even if he’s never been the most competent at reading lips it’s impossible _not to_ with how close they are.

 

“How ever so?” Draco’s mouth twitches into a smirk. “You can’t deny that my childhood made me utterly charming.”

 

Harry huffs, an exhale from his nose- it’s not exactly a laugh but it’s close to it. Close enough that won’t break the fragile quietness they’ve created.

“You’re a charmer alright.”

 

“Do I detect sarcasm? I am personally offended that y-“

The hand on his chin squeezes, which causes him to falter. One moment he’s sharp, all angles and entirely devilish- the next all of that is washed away.

 

“Do you ever stop talking?” Harry asks, no bite.

 

“I could be… persuaded.”

 

As if holding a wild animal, he moves slow- and it’s not too far off from the truth. Draco is more flighty, more bizarre, more foreign than anyone he’s ever known. There would be no surprise if he decides to bolt now. Harry brings his thumb up, placing it over Draco’s mouth and tracing his cupid’s bow. Eyes meeting fleetingly, and in response Draco’s tongue darts out against the pad of Harry’s finger and it’s all he can do to keep his knees from buckling.

 

“You’re-“ he wheezes, having to look away. He’d never hear the end of it if he lost control of himself now.

 

“I’m?” Draco mumbles against his finger, and he can’t deny the vibrations are sending him someplace hot.

 

“Devine.”

 

It’s the first word that pops into Harry’s head and apparently it’s more than enough to make Draco go completely red in the face. It shows in the way he’s holding himself now, shifting and uneasy like he’s come up to the edge of a cliff and he can’t decide whether to jump off or retreat. But this is the metaphorical leap he’s been looking for.

 

“You going to kiss me, Potter?” he asks when the thumb shifts away.

 

“Would you hex me if I did?”

 

And Draco _giggles._ He fucking _giggles._

“Don’t have a wand to hex you with even if I wanted to.”

 

“Would you punch me then?”

 

“Only one way to find out.”

 

The kiss is chaste but warm and when Harry presses into him so _softly_ Draco wants to ask him _what happened to that Gryffindor bravery?_ Draco presses back just a little bit more, because that’s what they do. They push each other.

It lasts a few seconds, Harry pulling away first but not too far. He’s trying to organize the thoughts running rampant in his head and this time it’s Draco chasing him. Their lips meet again, more sure, moving together and Draco lets a sound slip when he feels Harry’s fingers brushing against the hair of his undercut.

 

His head is reeling by the time he pulls away, trying to take breaths but finding that they’re coming in too shallow.

 

“You okay?” Harry asks and it’s filled with so much concern that it makes Draco’s heart clench in a weird way.

 

“Yeah-“ and God now he’s hyper aware of how their bodies are still pressed together, gripping the other boy’s waist like it’s his lifeline.

 

“You _sure_ you’re not going to punch me?”

 

“Not for this,” Draco hums hoping his small smile is somewhat reassuring and he utters a silent thanks when Harry removes his hands from his hair because while it’s pleasant it’s also incredibly distracting.

 

“For something else then?”

 

“Look,” in an attempt to keep him silent, Draco offers another kiss, slotting their lips together in surprise, if only for a moment. “I can’t promise you anything. Right now I feel different every day and it’s never pleasant and I’m barely holding myself together. I don’t know what I want, you’re aware.”

 

“Seems like you know what you want right now,” Harry breathes, tracing the line of Draco’s jaw.

 

“Right now,” he agrees, leaning into the touch. “But it changes. I fight with myself as much as I fight with you.”

 

“You could let me help you.”

 

Malfoy tenses. The fear and self disgust is twisting in his gut so suddenly and he’s got half a mind to tear himself away. He remembers that not long ago he spat at his savior that _that is not what this is. That they are not friends._ How could he delude himself from his past so easily?

 

“You _know_ how I feel about that,” he grits, starting to move back and Harry lets him take a step. But he’s torn between the past and the present.

 

“You’re right. You’re right,” Harry nods. They’re separated now, but Harry’s hand is gripping his wrist preventing him from going further. Not sure if he even wants to. “And I won’t offer it again if it makes you feel better. But you’ve got to let it be someone else. I don’t want to walk away from this avoiding you,” he says in sincerity. “To be guessing every day how it’s going to be between us. And I know you don’t want that either.”

 

It’d be a lie to say that being so volatile isn’t exhausting.

Air fills his lungs deeply, until the anger isn’t white hot. His nostrils flare. The music has stopped.

 

“Okay. I will admit that you are right, but don’t get used to it.”

 

“Yeah?” Harry asks, he’s alight with hope but Draco can also tell from the fingers wrapped around his wrist that he’s starting to clam up and sweat. To think the fear of offending him was so much. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Or insult you.”

 

“This is _unorthodox,_ ” and it is. “Don’t worry. What’s left of my pride isn’t the kind of pride I want to hold onto anyway.”

 

With not much else to say, Harry nods. Harry nods and he still hasn’t let go of Draco’s wrist. He still doesn’t let go when he crosses the room, shrinking the record player and tucking it back into his robes. It’s a good thing too. The eerie silence is kicking up dust and memories that the blonde is not eager to relive. There’s no glass bits on the floor but he can hear the reminiscent crunch under the weight.

 

“Ready to go back?”

 

“And enter the lions den?” Draco croaks.

 

“You act as though there are only Gryffindors.”

 

Their grip laces together.

 

“Might as well be.”

 

“What’s that suppose to mean?”

 

Draco chuckles.

 

“Nothing at all.”

 

They stop at the top of the staircase, not quite ready to descend. Up here it’s different. Up here they’re subject to something else. And down there they have to face reality.

 

“May I?” the Gryffindor asks and it takes Draco a moment to realize he’s being stared at. Well, his lips specifically.

Instead of speaking, he simply tilts his head down to make up for the height between them.

 

And he can’t even find it in himself to be anything but content as Harry kisses him one more time.

 

* * *

 

 

“He kissed me Pans!” Draco whines. Slouched together on his bed, (Hogwarts could never separate them, they’re too cunning) they’re engaged in heated gossip, or more accurately Draco is ranting his head off while Pansy paints her toenails. Initially the blonde had muttered a threat of _if you spill that so help me_ and was met with _relax, just because you can’t do magic doesn’t mean I can’t._ And he’d blushed and mumbled because she was right. He’d practically forgotten magic could be used so conveniently, now that he has lost its convenience. He’ll never take it for granted again, he swears.

 

“And were you okay with that?” she asks simply.

 

He groans, hiding his face in a pillow.  
“Yes.”

 

“Then I don’t see the problem. You don’t have to make it so complicated. I know it’s hard considering your past but you want to move on from that right?”

 

“Yes.” He’s glaring at her over the pillow.

 

“Love is tricky babe,” and he sputters at the word _love._ “You don’t get to escape that just because you’re Draco Sodding Malfoy.”

 

“I don’t know,” he groans. “I don’t know what I want or how I feel. Sometimes he’s alright but sometimes I want to punch him.”

 

“And sometimes I want to punch _you,_ ” she chides, smacking him upside the head with her free hand. “But that doesn’t mean I care for you any less. You’ll figure it out. Now you promised you’d let me paint your nails. Do you want green or black?”

 

* * *

 

“How is Malfoy?” Hermione asks though her tone implies polite conversation.

 

The crackling of the fireplace and the occasional page turn of her book are the loudest things in the room, and even when they came in he scanned to see that they were mostly alone in the common area. Whoever was there has vacated by now. It’s more than late.

 

“We kissed,” he blurts out.

 

Hermione stills.

“I meant how is he recovering? Honestly you do get carried away with him, I don’t know why I’m surprised.”

 

“Carried away?” Harry’s face twists in offense. “This has nothing to do with me taking him to Pomfrey. You think I pity-like him?”

 

“ _Do_ you pity like him?”

 

“ _No.”_

 

“Well good,” she turns the page. “That’s no way to go about it. Just please tell me you know what you’re doing and you’re not getting in over your head. You know yourself Harry,” she reaches out and squeezes his shoulder, eyebrows drawn together in worry. “You take something and you run with it until it drags you into the ground. I don’t want you caring about Malfoy to drag you down too.”

 

“It won’t Hermione,” he comforts. His heart swells when she tucks the bookmark into the page and shuts her book altogether. It’s a small way of showing he’s got her full attention and he knows he’d be lost without her. “I’ll be okay.”

 

“Okay,” Hermione nods, a bit of hair falling into her face and she pushes it away. “I know it’s hard for him. I know it’s hard for you too even if you don’t show it as much.” Her ever present frown of concern is endearing. “As long as you can handle it correctly. Be responsible and mature and- are you sure you don’t want to see a mind healer or some kind of therapist? I really think it could help.”

 

“If it’ll make you more comfortable with this whole thing, of course I’ll consider it.”

 

“Thank you Harry. You know-“ standing suddenly, she’s halfway across the room before Harry catches up. “I’ve got some papers my mind healer gave me that I’d like you to see. It talks about trauma and grief and coping and the symptoms and how to comfort a loved one who-“

 

And he’s not surprised at all she’s got readings on this. Really now. What else was he expecting?

 

* * *

 

 

A bit of parchment lies haphazardly on the bed. The only indication of what it hides is the Malfoy crest on a wax seal, the letter is open but neglected so it’s folded over on itself once more.

 

_Dearest Draco,_

 

It reads at the top left in loopy script even more fanciful than his own.

 

_I hope this letter finds you well. While I admit this is due to more formal matters, I find it all the more reason to indulge in pleasantries. How are you faring? How are your studies at school? Do say hello to Pansy and Blaise for me. I know this can’t have been easy for you. It is difficult for all of us. It has become quiet, and I struggle to give myself purpose without you to dote on, despite all that has fallen upon me. All things regarding familial affairs have never been mine to touch, as you know, up until now._

 

_This brings me to the more pressing issue. Not that I would hesitate to express my concern for you otherwise, but I wanted to give you time to adjust. I had hoped you’d write to me first. Regardless, Lucius requests that we visit him in order for you to settle our familial affairs. He can lay claim to nothing. It is not so much a secret to me that you struggled to cope with the decisions of the Wizengamot and may therefore not be aware. I know the idea of visiting Azkaban is less than appealing, so I urge you to take as much time as you need in answering this letter. This is but another stress that I would not wish upon you. It will be your burden to bare but please breathe easy and know that I am more than capable of handling things myself until you decide that you are ready, no matter how much it irritates your father._

 

_Please don’t be remorseful in taking your time, and if you decide not to visit home for the winter holiday, I will be more than understanding._

 

 _With Love,_ _  
_ _Mother_

 

He’s lucky he’s got his room to himself. He’s lucky that whoever was assigned to room with him has made other arrangements for themselves with someone else who doesn’t mind having a plus one. Whoever it was that didn’t want to sleep in the same room as an Ex-Death Eater had fucked merrily off and Draco’s lucky for that. Because he’s curled up under his duvet and weeping pathetically, snivelling like a child. He feels like he’s only a child. It’s not his fault his father’s got a stint up in Azkaban and he’s the only one left to his name. He doesn’t know what he wants for himself but it certainly isn’t this.

Although it’s not particularly terrible news, even if it isn’t what he wants. The last few years of his life left him without much choice, so doing what he _wants_ rather than what’s expected of him isn’t a luxury he’ll allow himself to think about. It’s more his mother. She’s a weak point if anything and he loves her. Hearing from her sparks some kind of pain that he’s not ready to acknowledge, that it was her he was protecting all along and now maybe his hard work has finally paid off. That they’re allowed to exist without the looming threat of his father. That she cares for him deeply and he has yet to disappoint her. If only she knew.

  


The door creaks open, he hiccups once then silences himself as best he can, holding in sobs. Step, step closer and he curls in on himself.

 

“Malfoy?”

 

_Fuck._

 

In some shape or form of trying to protect himself he turns away, covering what he can of his face with his sleeve before Harry peels the blanket back a bit before stopping.

 

“Malfoy-”

 

“Go _away_ Potter.”

 

“Pansy sent me to check on you. You were skipping dinner so she worried.”

 

“I don’t care,” Draco hiccups again, scrubbing at his face to banish the tears but it only makes his skin more red and irritated. “I want to be alone. Tell her I’m fine.”

 

“But you’re obviously not.” He hesitates, like he wants to sit down on the bed but decides against it. “Will you at least tell me what’s wrong?”

 

The blonde heaves a shuddering breath and closes his eyes. “No.”

 

They’re met with silence until Draco hears the crinkling of parchment and his eyes fly open. Before he even thinks twice he’s muttering out a vicious _accio_ and the letter comes flying out of Harry’s grasp. It’s wandless magic, which he’s been capable of to some extent since sixth year, but not having practiced magic in quite some time, it leaves him more drained than before if that were possible. He clutches the paper greedily to his chest and glares.

“You ought to learn to respect others’ privacy,” he bites out. “Don’t touch things that don’t belong to you.”

 

All Harry can do is be stunned for a moment. It all seems to be phasing him but he pulls himself out of it and inclines his head.  
“You’re right. Just wanted to see who it was from. I wouldn’t have actually read it if it makes you feel any better.”

 

“It doesn’t.”

 

“Okay.” For a moment he stands awkwardly, then mutters something under his breath. Draco’s kerchief comes flying off his desk and lands in Harry’s hold. Then he’s leaning over the blonde, dabbing the wetness from his cheeks. “I’ll let her know you aren’t great but weren’t in the mood to talk about it. If you want to later that’s fine. If you don’t come down for breakfast tomorrow I’m checking on you again.” He sets the kerchief on the nightstand.

 

There’s still anger there, yes, but Merlin it’s so _unlike_ Harry. Harry who’s so hot headed and angry all the time. It shocks Draco into momentary silence. Momentary.

 

“Sorry,” he wheezes, gripping the letter tighter.

 

“Don’t be,” Harry answers simply. “It wasn’t right of me to pry. Besides one day you’ll see me break down and won’t demand an apology for it.”

 

“Merlin how are you acting so grown up about this?”

 

“I’ve had a few talks with Hermione about my temper,” he answers honestly, a lopsided grin. “And I learned to listen. You’re just having a bad day but I know you still care about me, you git.”  
He brings his thumb up to his lips in a mock kiss, then presses his thumb to Draco’s forehead.   
“See you later.”

 

“Later Potter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry not sorry if this is rushed i had that dancing scene in my head the whole week and i felt it would be wrong not to let them smoochie. also sorry for any spelling mistakes i love posting at ungodly hours


	4. IV

With Potter’s ever so kind hearted concern, Pansy and Blaise are now aware that something is wrong. He’s always been somewhat good at keeping things hidden, maybe not as good as he’d like to think, but that requires so much effort. And he’s so, so tired. There’s no use in it really. Bottling it up and pretending like he’s fine. Draco thinks about where that has ever gotten him and he shivers.

 

They don’t bug him that night but they nag him all next day, in class and in the halls, and Pansy is even more insistent about pushing sweets into his mouth, that’s drawn constantly into a thin-lipped line.

 

“You need to eat something,” she presses during breakfast, and Draco looks fleetingly over his shoulder to see that Potter is aware that he’s here- that he doesn’t have to go keeping his promise to go looking for Draco now that Draco’s shown his face in the Great Hall. He looks like shit and he knows it, and he feels worse than he looks, so the idea of stuffing something sweet into his mouth is actually relatively appealing, though he’s never been one to eat his emotions.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Draco mumbles, leaning his head on her shoulder. “Pass me a scone.”

 

“Just one?” she asks, exasperated, then hands him two. “Not a chance. You’ve dropped at least a stone since the last time you were truly healthy, probably more.” Truly healthy. Like before the war.  
He says nothing because there’s nothing to say, other than the fact that it’s extraordinarily creepy how accurate her judgement of his weight is.

 

“Besides,” Pansy murmurs, picking the crust off her toast. “If you keep dropping there will be nothing left for Potter to grope, then where would you be?”

 

Draco chokes, coughing scone crumbs that went down the wrong pipe. He hopes nobody else is looking because he can feel the heat creeping up his face.  
“Must you be so crude?” he half whispers, elbowing her.

 

“Must you be so modest, Malfoy?” she’s grinning again, never a speck of lipstick staining her teeth.

 

“If you stop harassing me about Potter then maybe I’ll feel up to it to tell you why I’m upset.”

 

That’s enough for her.

 

* * *

 

 

The parchment trembles in his grip, walking through the corridor and trying to stuff it in his bag, and though he’s staring straight ahead, he’s really staring somewhere far away.

 

_Pansy’s eyes tumble in saccades, scanning the letter then handing it back silently. Blaise is already watching pensively, but neither of them speak. They know how it is. What comfort is there left to offer? Though they’ve made it out of a war, not unscathed, the world they left behind is careening unwelcomed back into their lives. What does being a pureblood mean anyway? What does being a Malfoy mean anyway._

 

His footfalls are loud enough to pick out, though the halls are far from being empty, or maybe Draco is just astoundingly aware of everything around him. They’re not all looking at him, he has to rationalize, they don’t all know.

 

“Mr Malfoy,” a quiet but firm voice meets his ear and he whips his head around wildly, stiffening.

 

“Professor,” he replies, the tension leaving only his shoulders. But then he inwardly cringes- she’s technically headmistress but he’ll never be able to shake the memory of her teaching them how to turn animals into water goblets.

 

“Would you be amicable in accompanying me to my office?”

 

He swallows. “I would.”

 

While she nods, Draco studies her face for the precious second and a half, but that’s a big mistake. He’s trailing after her like a kicked crup and all he can think about are the growing lines by her eyes and how he’s part of the reason behind them. She’s graceful in her age but she looks more like twenty years older than she was eight years ago and Draco hardly thinks that’s fair.

 

They’re in her office and he has to force himself to look away from the portraits, knowing that even the deceased headmasters are judging him from their painted prison.

 

“Have a seat,” Mcgonagall suggests, so he does.

The back of the chair presses into the ridges of his spine, and trying to appear composed, Draco clasps his hands together.

 

“How have things been?” she asks, peering over her glasses.

 

“Things have been fine,” he lies smoothly and his own reply is so quick it startles him. It has become an automatic response. When someone asked him that in the past, he knew it had only been a formality, or a false pretense of some kind. They didn’t really care, they were just putting their polite conversational skills to use.

 

“Oh? I have heard from Mr. Potter that you been having trouble with your wand. I suppose that is no longer a problem then, if you’re doing ‘fine’?”

 

“No,” he sighs. “It was a compulsive lie.”

 

Mcgonagall fixes him with a stare. Expressions don’t have the capability of speech but they relay messages well enough. This one, he takes, means she doesn’t appreciate being lied too.

“I thought as much.”

 

Instead of fumbling for an excuse, Draco dips into his robe for his wand. The wood no longer brings a spark of magic upon touch. He can feel the dying core try to connect to his own, loyal to the end, before it fizzles out pathetically. It rolls discarded on the desk, then comes to a halt.

 

“My wand is dead. And I was unable to match with another when I was escorted to Ollivander’s this past weekend.”

 

“Unable to match?”

 

“I’m afraid so. He was very vague behind his reasoning. Only that I was too… conflicted for any of the wands to ‘like’ me. His words.”

 

She lets out a soft hum, pursing her lips.

 

“What do I do?” the words are blurted out so suddenly Draco knows he can’t take them back. And even more horrifyingly, they keep coming. “How am I suppose to attend Hogwarts and pass my N.E.W.T.s without magic? Those are the conditions of my parole!”

 

“Mr. Malfoy.” He snaps his jaw shut. “Hogwarts will be more than willing to make accommodations. Help is given to everyone who can ask for it. You will find a way. I know you’re very bright.”

 

“You’d be willing to make accommodations for me?”

 

“I can see why you may find that surprising, but yes.”

 

“Thank you Professor.”

 

They fall into an only slightly uncomfortable silence. It probably lasts for a few moments, but the longer it does, Draco finds himself writhing in discomfort at his thoughts.

What would his father think about him needing special accommodations? And he cringes that his mind goes immediately to that.

He’d love any opportunity to prove his son was special, and better than everyone else. But the fact that he was without a functional wand and barely able to conjure magic. Draco doesn’t want to imagine what might await him at home if Lucius wasn’t shackled up.

 

“Is there something else bothering you Mr. Malfoy?”

 

Draco looks up. His eyes go first, then the rest of his head follows, rising to meet her seemingly all knowing visage.

 

Instead of answering, since he doubts he could find words without a waver in his voice, Draco robotically pulls the letter from his bag and slides it onto the surface between them. She stares at it questionably, but reads it nonetheless.

 

This is different. This is different than having Pansy or Blaise read it because at least they have a clue what Pureblood expectations are like from the inside, and not the outside looking in. It’s the judgement of an observer on his culture that’s unnerving. Will she understand the amount of stress this is putting him under? Will she even care.

 

He wants to peer into her mind to know. But he’s always been better at Occlumens so he doubts he could get away with it by being subtle. He wouldn’t risk it anyway.

 

“I think I can imagine why this may be concerning.”

 

Well. There’s that at least.

 

“I take it you are not happy with the implications of this letter?”

 

“No,” he says. “Not in the slightest.”

 

“Well,” she hands the letter back to him. “The future may appear dark but there is always more than one path, and you choose which one to walk.”

 

* * *

 

 

The walls mockingly echo at him in the dead of night, footfalls bouncing as he paces in front of an empty arch.

Back in the dorm, Draco had discarded his robe and bag, promptly fell asleep, then awoke to only the moon and stars. Sure, not everyone is asleep by now, but enough are holed up in their rooms to leave the corridors empty.

 

The stone crunches under his heels as he paces.

_I need a room to think._

 

_I need a room to get away._

 

_I need a room to figure out who I want to be._

 

He can see it- the outline of the door is still their. Nailed into the wall with a blistering charcoal edge, and burnt rivets. It won’t open though. Not for anything he asks of it and he can’t help but think about why.

 

Even the memory brings the smell of smoke to his nose and his face contorts in discomfort. Head reeling and pounding, Draco can feel the sweat pouring out of his skin, and it’s _too hot._

God what he wouldn’t give to be drowning in something else.

 

He brings a shaky hand up to push his hair back, then he drags it down his face. When he reaches his mouth, he pulls back startled, and finds something red coating his fingers.

 

“Oh fuck-“

 

Blood flows down and Draco quickly cups his palm there to prevent it from dripping onto the floor. Quickly, he abandons the room of requirement- but really feels like it has abandoned him.

 

Stumbling into the bathroom. Draco palms the ledge of the sink, swearing under his breath. The blood is trickling over his cupid’s bow and through the cracks of his fingers splattering onto his _white_ shirt and he thinks fleetingly that he’ll have to visit Pansy again because she’s always been good at charms that remove stains. She likes to pretend to be proper and tidy no matter how many times she’s ruined collars with foundation or pillowcases with mascara, when really magic gives her that helping hand. Just like how he pretends to be calm and collected, but having a bloodied nose has always been prefaced by a punch so his heart is racing like it’s expecting another kick in the face.

 

Nimble fingers turn at the spicket, on then off again to wash off the blood, then pop open the buttons until he’s only half exposed. The sight of silvery scars _everywhere_ catches his attention and suddenly everything else becomes more interesting because if he thinks about that pain it’ll still ache, blood and vomit together will be a disaster to get rid of.

He traces cracks in the tile with his eyes, counting the imperfections in the marble, heaving air through his mouth as the blood continues to drip in the sink.

Breath, breath, drip, breath, breath, drip, breath, breath, breathe, drip, breath breath breath breath breath-

 

Draco chokes out a sob and scrambles to turn the faucet on again. It sputters pathetically, followed by a wavering stream but even something inconsistent is better than listening to himself spiral into hyperventilating.

The blood washes away, turning the basin a light pink.

Everything about this is hauntingly familiar, but it’s distantly different enough that he curses himself for even being distressed about it in the first place.

He spits, then spits again. His face feels watery, tingly, and he wants to scrub at his eyes until the floaty feeling goes away, but he’s afraid if he lets go he’ll crumple to the floor and laying on a bathroom floor covered in blood and tears is not an ideal way to spend the evening. He knows.

 

Even just _knowing_ is enough to have him shaking, and God he’s choking.

Draco shuts his eyes, and presses his fingernails into his palms, counting the little crescent indents in his mind. He’s here and not there.

 

“Malfoy?”

 

“Merlin- fuck!”

He whirls around so suddenly it rattles his brain in his skull, the pain has him cringing.

“Potter.”

 

Of course it’s him. There’s nobody else it would be. Draco’s not even sure why he turned around in the first place.

He faces the sink again, his back to Harry, letting his nose drip into the drain. But it’s not enough.

Just _feeling_ Harry’s magic in the room is enough to make him dizzy. For all the time he spent loathing him, and making up for it, he’d forgotten how absolutely filled to the brim with raw power Harry was.

 

“Are you okay?”

Harry’s hand rests gently on his shoulder. The scars on Draco’s chest are buzzing. The simple contact is enough to make his knees buckle.

 

“S’ just a nosebleed,” Draco keens, trying to convince himself.

 

“Are you sure?”

 

He nods.

 

“Just a nosebleed.”

The statement is an echo of the truth, but really they know better. Spitting into the sink again, the blonde grimaces, then brings his fingers, which still hold their manicure from Pansy thanks to an anti-chipping spell, up to his face. It seems a little ridiculous, but he’s too hysteric to notice it now. The pads of his index and pointer smear the red across his upper lip, and then onto his cheek. It adds more color to his already flushed expression, and he worries the warm sticky liquid onto his thumb.

 

“Draco,” Harry sighs, gingerly taking the other boy’s wrist and silently bringing it to the faucet. “Want me to heal that for you?”

 

“No,” he says. The water washes away any trace of a stain and Draco wants to stick his whole head in the sink. Harry lets go of his wrist.

 

“But-“

 

“Leave it.”

 

“But Draco-“

 

“ _I,”_ he seethes “can’t do magic right now. And I can’t rely on anyone else to do it for me. I’ll manage it on my own.”

 

“You don’t have to do this to yourself.”

 

The room is spinning. Not rapidly, but a gentle whirlpool. It might be comforting in some twisted way. This place is warped.

 

Draco pulls the stopper on the handle so the water no longer drains, instead it slowly begins to fill the sink.

“I’ll be fine,” he affirms, quiet but brisk.

 

“That feels like a lie.”

 

“Are you accusing me?”

 

The water reaches the brim and he’s about to shut it off, but Harry grips his shoulder again, this time harder, and spins him around.

“No,” the gryffindor breathes with utmost sincerity. The look he wears is soft, open, and it’s that kind of caring Draco can scarcely remember being directed at him ever in his life.

Calloused digits find their way to his chest, and when they trace his scars Draco feels his back go ramrod straight.

 

“I’m sorry you know. About this.”

 

Distantly Draco can hear the water overflowing onto the floor behind him.

It’s an apology. He wasn’t expecting one, not really. But it’s dredging the memory up, out of the repressed corners of his mind. His body tearing open and the pain and the _blood._ So much blood. And searing, indescribable agony.

 

Draco collapses to the floor, Harry not moving in time to catch him but even if he had, Draco is entirely dead weight. He curls in on himself, staring at the water pooling at his shoes and wishing it would suck him under.

 

“Fuck-“ Harry follows him to the ground quickly.

 

“I’m not...” Draco tries to speak but his voice sounds like someone else and so far away it startles him. He has to swallow and try again. “I’m not even upset,” his voice cracks “about it anymore.”

And it’s true. It knocks the wind from him again but he’s made peace with the lines that decorate his body. So if he’s not upset why is he _crying?_

 

From his spot where he’s tucked his head between his knees, Draco can’t see. Draco can’t see Harry caught between two parts of himself, wanting to reach out but knowing this is entirely his fault. He’s maimed the memory of bathroom floors and blood for Draco forever.

 

They sit in silence until the water threatens to soak the cuffs of their trousers, so Harry resolves himself to stand, turn off the sink and unplug the drain.

“Let’s go,” his voice cold but still reaching the blonde who’s taking sharp inhales through his nose. “I don’t want to be in here any more than you do.”

 

“Can’t move.”

 

“I’ll carry you.”

 

“No.”

 

They dance around each other. They always have. And it’s a fragile dance. It’s always been _them_ and they don’t really know what that means. Neither of them can escape it. Even Harry who has outsmarted death twice feels as though he will be running from this for the rest of his life.

 

“Why don’t you let me help you?” Harry asks, crouching down in front of his counterpart. He lifts Draco’s head by the chin, the blood has dried and formed a crust under his nostrils.

 

“You said you wouldn’t try that anymore,” Draco reminds him as aggressively as he can manage which isn’t much.

 

“Why don’t you-“

 

“I don’t _need_ help.”

 

“No. Why don’t you let _me_ help you?! I did this to you! I can’t take it back but you won’t even let me try.”

 

“ _You_ did this to me?” Draco scoffs sarcastically. “Nice of you to take all the credit. I’m mental in every way, and Saint Potter is responsible for all of it.”

 

“No,” Harry scolds. He mutters something under his breath and Draco feels the blood vanish off his lip. “This one thing. Specifically. This was me.”

 

“I’m alive,” he tries to reason. “Aren’t I?”

 

“But I almost killed you. So many people died because of me. Don’t you understand?”

 

“You didn’t kill them.” Draco catches Harry’s forearm gently, rubbing it with his thumb. “You didn’t point your wand at them and you didn’t kill them. They died fighting for a cause. You were just the catalyst, Harry.”

 

“Yeah,” Harry huffs. “Lucky me.”

 

He isn’t sure what to say to that. Not really. It’s a fair thing, to be resentful of a life you never asked for. To hold so much responsibility. The weight of the deaths of every single victim are pressing on Harry, sagging his shoulders down and looking weary with ‘what-ifs’.

 

He tries to meet the gaze of the boy who lived, but it’s almost an impossible mission.

 

“Hey,” Draco coos- Merlin, since when has he _cooed_ at anyone, especially Harry Potter. And finally gets his attention. “Your eyes are glistening with the ghosts of your past.”

 

“They are _not_ ,” Harry scowls, and he wants to wipe that nasty smirk off Malfoy’s face. “Please do not quote Rita Skeeter.”

 

“What?” His laughter is low, but not mocking. “You don’t find young love to be stirring?”

 

There he’s gone again. Draco seems to be excellent at running away, and even better at inserting implications of love into his conversations with Potter. It’s become an awful habit, along with biting his nails down to a bleeding stub, or staying up into the late hours of the night. Things he’d never once dream of but now something he can’t seem to shake.

 

“Not in the slightest.”

 

They find themselves back up in the common room. There’s not many people about, granted, but the ones that are about are giving him odds looks. It’s not really out of the ordinary. He chalks it up to having a shirt covered in bloodstains and the fact that he’s walking with Harry Potter.

 

Stepping into his room, Draco sheds his shirt, then tugs another one on. His skin is still slightly wet with sweat, and it sticks uncomfortably, but it’s certainly preferable to walking around half naked.   
Harry’s hovering idly, like he’s not sure what to do with himself. In any other pretense this would be weirder than it is. But now both of them are too tired to let their minds run wild with the idea of Draco stripping down in front of him.

 

He’s toed his shoes off by now too, Draco stepping into the dorm hall in grey socks, then knocking on Pansy’s door.

 

“Pans?” He calls softly. There’s a moment of silence, then a few footsteps and the door swings open.

 

“Yes Draco dearest?”  


She eyes Harry warily, peering around Draco then giving him her full attention back. Her bangs are pinned off to the sides, and startlingly she seems devoid of makeup. Draco feels a pang of guilt at the bags under her eyes and wonders if he’s part of the reason why.

 

“Get the stains out of this for me, would you?”  
He presents her with the ruined button up, her primly manicured nails tracing over the seams. Her mouth is half open when suddenly it snaps shut, her eyes narrowing drastically at the boys in front of her.

 

“Did you two have another fight?” she hisses.

 

“No-” This time it’s Harry. He eagerly denies it, like for once in his life having a fight with Malfoy would be a bad thing. And it would be.   
Draco grabs his hand, and laces them together. There’s something strange about this. Having Pansy and Harry in the same space, while she’s in her pajamas and he’s appalled at the idea that they might have fought.

 

He lets out a reluctant sigh. “Please just fix it. You’re the best at these charms and that’s one of my good shirts.”

 

“Not that Italian designer?”  


“No, the French one.”

 

“Merlin!” She steals a quick glance at the tag and her wand is out instantly, then the shirt is pressed and spotless again. Pansy admires her handy work, then hands it back. “Out of all the shirts-”

 

“I know, I know,” he relents.

 

Her posture picks up like she’s going to go on a rant. Back straightening, eyebrows furrowing, her black hair swinging as she tosses it behind her ear. But then she goes soft. And it’s in a way that Draco is sure he can ever recall. Not in the open way like when she’s brushing his hair or in the reserved way when she’d read the letter then handed it back to him wordlessly. Not in the way of near sorrow when she’d first spotting the ugly mark on his arm and he had to ignore her for a week because he couldn’t handle the thought that she might pity him.  
No. This is soft and almost… sad.

 

“Well,” she sniffs, snapping Draco from his train of thought. “Be more careful.”

 

He’s searching the features he once heard someone call ‘pug-like’ when he notices her rapidly glance to where his and Harry’s hand are connected.  
“Don’t let me keep you too long.”

 

And then he understands.

 

“You could never keep me too long. Do you want us to come in- is there anyone else?” Draco asks, peering into the room.

 

“No!” Pansy shakes her head. She’s pushing him out of her room. It’s suppose to be playful but he can tell by now. “No it’s okay. Really Draco.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“Yes. Salazar knows I need my beauty sleep and you _definitely_ need yours.”

 

“No need to be so rude! Where’re your manners Pansy?”

 

“Where’s your bleach, _Draco?_ I think your roots are coming in.”

 

He gasps, staring offendedly at her wicked grin and pulls a frown, but it’s hard to cover a laugh.

“You’re an evil bitch.”

 

“And you love me. Now go to bed.”

 

The door shuts abruptly in their faces, all is silent for a moment until Draco shouts ‘I love you too!’

 

* * *

 

 

In the safe haven of Draco’s bed, it’s a little cramped. They squeeze in shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh and it’s not so bad.

Draco was able to pull on pajamas, leaving Harry in whatever he was wandering around in, except this time Draco made him take off his shoes before he got into bed

 

“Should I ask how you found me tonight?” the blonde speaks into the dark.

 

“Do you want to know?”

 

“I guess not. Does it matter?”

 

“Not unless you want it to.”

 

They curl against each other.

 

“Harry.”

It’s one word. One word and it charges the air ten times between them. Harry swallows thickly, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling.

 

“Yes Draco?”

 

“I have to tell you something.”

 

“Go on then.”

 

“That letter. It was from my mother. She wants me to visit my father. I need to. Take care of family business.”

 

“Oh.”

 

The air is tense, but not in the same way. Still you could cut it with a knife.

 

“Draco,” Harry shifts, rolling on top of the other boy. He rests his weight on his forearms on either side of Draco’s head. “We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

 

He’s stunned into silence. They both are really. Never would their past selves have foreseen this, but oddly enough it fits.

 _He looks softer without his glasses_ and _fuck why am I waxing poetic about him._

 

Draco falls into a dreamless sleep and Harry hovers over him, visions of blood behind his eyelids every time he blinks.


	5. V

He slips off of Draco before the morning rolls around, but does so just as Draco’s eyes flutter open for the very first time. Filled with confusion and sleep and it’s a bout of wakefulness he won’t remember when he wakes up fully. Harry lets himself tip down, resting chin and lips and nose against the part of Draco’s forehead that creeps into his hairline. Then he’s gone.

But it’s a struggle to stumble back to his room. He’d been hovering protectively over Draco all night. Somehow hours can go by instantly without a wink of sleep. His limbs are sore, and heavy like lead. Refusing to give, muscles screaming in protest, Harry winces as his knees crack below him and his biceps burn. 

Maybe spending hours perched on all fours wasn’t the smartest of ideas, really Harry doesn’t know how he’s managed it, and he’s lucky that he’s not playing Quidditch this year because to get on a broom in this state would be hell. 

 

Ron is still sleeping. Unwakeable really, as Harry pushes the door open quietly and slips into his own bed. Snoring too, but the low deep pitch is something Harry is used to and wouldn’t be a distraction at all if he were in fact trying to get some rest. He’s knows it’s futile though. So he counts the seconds that go by as sun filters in through the windows, listening as Ron mumbles in his night terrors about Hermione instead of spiders. 

 

“Harry,” Hermione says in that way of hers when he misses bringing the spoon of porridge to his mouth a second time, when she sees the darkness sinking in under his eyes. 

 

“I’m fine,” he tells her, wiping it off his cheek. 

 

Ron looks between them, and decides it’s more worth it to just keep eating his bacon. 

 

“He’s not your responsibility,” she shoots back and he falters for a moment. They’ve completely bypassed all the frivolous explanations that would lead up to this point. That’s fine. He doesn’t want to explain himself. 

 

“But you said-“

 

“I know what I said. You  _ knew  _ about it, so I urged you to do the responsible thing, not become responsible for him. And you did.” Hermione gives him a sympathetic smile, resting her hand on top of his own and it’s warm, and soft. “You need to let people like Pomfrey deal with this. I know you think you have to fix everything yourself, but that would be unfair to both you and Malfoy.” 

 

He sighs. And gives in. Because she’s right and he knows it, but it still doesn’t make it any easier. 

 

“Okay.”

 

* * *

 

It’s best to get this over with now, he thinks, muttering only a word to Mcgonagall when he’s ready- nobody else because he doesn’t want Pansy or Harry’s coddling, it’ll just make him work himself up and then back out and that’s not an option- and ignores the way she stares at him in hesitance because they both know he’s not ready to face this. It doesn’t matter if he’s ready or not though. Because the family name is only going to sit and rot. Because he won’t be spending the winter hols with his mother, but he wants to see her. He wants to see her outside of their decrepit, unwelcoming manor that is no longer and will never be home. 

 

This is just not the ideal place. 

 

The boat to Azkaban is slippery, tossing him back and forth because of the choppy waves. Ice cold sprays his face, but he’s almost thankful because it would definitely take something like dunking his head into an artic sea to remind himself that this is reality. This is his reality now. 

He’s put on his best loafers and robes, so as to not disappoint his father, and he hands over his wand when they ask for it, not even bothering to tell the guards it doesn’t work. They wouldn’t believe him if he says he didn’t bring it, but that’s just about the amount of usefulness it has at this point. None. Left to collect dust on some fireplace mantle. 

It’s sad because the Hawthorne once was weighty in his hands. Now it’s just as pathetic as him.

 

His mother’s sickly sweet with some expensive perfume, tickling at his nose and he almost wants to sneeze, but not even that could drown out the smell of decay and despair this place holds. It’s like there’s something inside his chest, squeezing what’s left of his hope out but there aren’t even dementors anymore. 

 

Draco misses the walk there because all he does is stare at the ground, determined not to know the faces around him if he looks up. Cackling and screaming and spitting at their feet and he knows he hears his and his mother’s name a few times. But resolutely, he cannot look up. 

 

“Draco.”

 

He looks up.

 

His father’s hair is greasy and limp, hanging in front of his gaunt face like strings, in front of his sunken and empty eyes that still somehow pierce Draco and instill some strange semblance of fear. He would never survive in a place like this.

 

All he has to do is make it through this conversation. Then he can go home. 

 

* * *

 

It’s hard to imagine that only a few doors down from where Harry had just been playing chess with Ron in the common room, he finds this. 

He hadn’t seen Draco all day but it’s the weekend so he tried not to bother himself with it, taking Hermione and Ron’s judgmental stares in stride. 

He pushes the door to Draco’s dorm open and stops. 

 

Draco is propped up against the trunk at the foot of his bed. Spine against the wood, one leg outstretched, the other bent but still limp. His shirt is open a few buttons, his tie laying haphazardly on the floor, Harry notes only for a brief second because he can imagine Draco ripping it off and whipping it to throw across the room in a fit of anger, but he’d rather focus on the Draco that’s here and now and not the one he’s conjuring up in his mind. 

The most important part is that Draco’s got the rim of a long glass bottle tipped to his mouth, chugging the contents with hollow abandon. 

 

“What are you doing?” Harry asks dumbly because the answer is obvious and, well, literally right in front of him. 

 

“Potter,” Draco half slurs and seethes. “Come to join me in wallowing?” 

 

“You were trying to quit.”

 

“Saw my father. What a shithole that place is, Azkaban,” Draco says, either blatantly ignoring him or just too lost in his own head to hear. Either way, it doesn’t matter. He takes another drawn out sip. “Real brilliant family reunion.” 

 

Harry grits his teeth and digs the heels of his palms into his eye sockets. Colors and flashes of white burst from his eyelids but among them he sees all the dead and the barely living. He’s too tired for this. He can’t be too tired but he just is. 

 

“Are you mad that I didn’t save him from there?” he asks thickly, not sure if he wants to know. 

 

“Course not.” Draco shakes his head. “Just mad at how utterly pathetic my life has become.”

 

“Wouldn’t be so pathetic if you stopped drinking,” Harry suggests. 

 

Something flashes darkly inside of Draco. 

 

“I can stop whenever I want,” he sneers and stiffly, deliberately, Draco lowers the bottle to the floor. It hits the wood with a dull thud, and he lets go, raising his hand up in the air. “See?” 

 

“Draco,” Harry warns. “I don’t want to do this. You know I can’t stop myself when it comes to helping other people. But I am too bloody tired to do it alone right now.” 

 

“Don’t worry,” Draco reassures him, grinning wickedly when he picks up the bottle and finishes it off, relishing in the way Harry’s jaw hardens and ignoring the flicker of disappointment. He’s got his hand on the doorknob and is stomping out when Draco tells him “you were never  _ my  _ hero.” 

 

Harry’s angry. He knows it’s his temper, knows it’s how he handles the weight of the world and maybe it’s over the top but he’s still so  _ angry _ . 

 

They’re ignoring each other now. And Draco hates it because when he comes to, he has to face all the destruction his drunk self caused but it just makes him want to wallow in his sorrows more. His lips tingle at the bitter tang of alcohol but he wishes it were Harry’s lips against his own instead. That could be his again, if he could just apologize. And function normally. But that’s so difficult 

Pansy and Blaise slip away from him too. And suddenly it’s just him against a world that makes him feel invisible. 

 

Maybe some time goes by. No, time definitely does go by because when Draco looks up one day from his far away place, he sees holly hanging from the ceilings and garlands strung about the castle walls. It’s Christmastime. His mother hasn’t even asked what he wants. 

 

Draco settles into the library, a small stack of books atop the desk, determined to get at least five inches of this essay done. Somehow he’s managed months without magic but graduating Hogwarts is a condition of his parole, so he has to make time for it between all his sulking. 

 

Two inches in and there’s an uncomfortable, burning, itching on the back of his neck. He grumbles and reaches around with his free hand. But scratching it provides no relief. He tries a little more forcefully, only relenting at the sound of footsteps across the floor behind him. Draco spins around only to come nose to nose with Hermione. 

 

“You’re a mess, honestly,” she tells him, squinting. 

 

“I’m more than aware, thanks,” he turns back to his parchment. It sits warmly in the glow of candlelight because now he can’t even cast a lumos. 

 

“It’s driving Harry mad!” 

 

“Fairly certainly that’s the result of his childhood stresses. Not me.”

 

Hermione bristles, standing still. Her mouth is pressed together tightly, fists clenched at her sides and shoulders drawn up. Momentarily fear flickers through him because he remembers how nasty her right hook can be. But then she yanks out the chair next to him and practically throws herself into it, bushy hair swinging in front of her face and she has to tug it away before she speaks again. 

 

“Have you ever seen Harry sleep?” It’s low and guarded. 

 

“Definitely not,” Draco points his nose up, dipping his quill into the pot. “That would be incredibly bizarre of me to watc-“

 

“No, because Harry doesn’t sleep at all.” 

 

“His insomnia is hardly any of my business,” Draco counters, trying to focus on his essay but the little nagging worry at the back of his mind is growing because she’s  _ right  _ and he’s never seen Harry sleep and he’d been too busy pitying himself to notice any sort of plea. 

 

“Losing lots of people was hard on him Draco,” Hermione says slowly like he’s six years old and will have trouble keeping up. “And I don’t know what’s going on between you two exactly but he’s making himself sick over you. Because you need help too. Do both of yourselves a favor and get it, or let someone give it to you.” 

 

“And you think I deserve this help?” he challenges her. 

 

“No, not really,” she says bluntly. “Not yet anyway. Everyone can have a second chance but only if they prove themselves for it.” 

 

* * *

 

They can’t expel him or send him to Azkaban for it, because in the end Hogwarts is there to help their students, not hurt. But still it hurts so bad, when in the middle of the night, he has Mcgonagall come in and take away his stash of alcohol, setting up wards so that if any of it comes into his room it’ll be turned to water anyway. It sits painfully in his stomach because now he’s thinking about ways to sneak it to breakfast or into bathrooms and then he bangs his head into the wall because  _ look at him _ , he’s become pathetic, considering resorting to smuggling a bottle of Ogden’s Finest into the lavatory. And she doesn’t say a word to him. 

 

Withdrawal makes him shaky, even more so than before because it’s been longer and Draco presses his head between his hands hard trying to remember all the things that will make this worth it. Pansy carding her fingers through his hair, her doing his nails, her buying his favorite ridiculously expensive sweets. 

Harry smiling at him slow and sugary like honey, dancing to muggle classical music under constellations, and kissing. 

Kissing Harry Potter. 

 

For some reason thinking of these things just makes him more miserable. 

 

He goes to her when he needs, but can’t bring himself to bother Pomfrey during the nights where it gets bad. Where he shakes and shakes and goes from sweating to shivering. Where he hears his father berating him and he spits up bile, looks at himself in the mirror and wants to shatter it but he couldn’t fix it if he did without magic so he just takes open palms to his face and smacks really hard, sobbing quietly until he doesn’t want to do anything but sleep. 

 

He can’t let anyone else see him like that. Not when he’s let Harry in to only have him walk away. No. He can deal with this himself. 

 

This is his help. This is his redemption. He has to earn it. 

 

Soon enough he can return Hermione’s smiles, though his are much more bleary. She tosses them his way during class and Draco thinks maybe it’s to distract him from how blatantly Harry is brooding two feet to her right or left at any given moment. 

 

* * *

 

“He’s getting better,” Hermione whispers to him, tuning out the lecture just for a moment. 

 

“Good for him,” Harry replies but he’s still tired. Still haunted by the dead. It’s almost Christmas and even though he has the Weasley’s to go home to, there will always be an empty seat. An empty seat caused by the war he created. So many empty seats. 

 

He wonders where Draco is going to go during the holidays. Certainly not the manor, if he has any choice. He only thinks on it for a moment. 

 

* * *

 

Christmas comes. Harry gets another jumper, surrounded by the red hair that loves him like their own. But all he feels is empty. 

 

Christmas comes. Draco stares into the dying embers of a fire in the common area, and returns to his room to drink lots and lots of water. But all he feels is alone. 

 

* * *

 

They meet again in the halls. It’s been a few days back and their meeting alone is inevitable, Draco rationalizes. But even if he does, seeing that loathsome bedhead only fills him with rage as he remembers how it felt to spend Christmas alone, without a word spoken between them. 

 

His nostrils flare and he’s filled with that familiar hate. A hate that makes his blood boil, a hate that radiates to his very core and he sneers, grabbing Harry by the collar and pushing him into a nearby alcove before he can stop himself, Harry too perplexed to protest. 

 

”I hate you.”

 

“What-“

 

“I  _ hate  _ you and that’s comfortable and familiar and fighting you makes me feel the blood in my veins and I don’t know how to exist without that. Without that hate.” 

 

“But I thought that you. We. Were past that.” 

 

It hurts. It hurts like it’s twisting in Draco’s gut and even he doesn’t fully understand it. These feelings are complicated, his feelings toward Harry always have been. But now there’s something else in the mix that’s making this all the more difficult. A part of him that  _ doesn’t  _ like the distraught confusion that Harry is wearing so vulnerably. He’s tangled up so hopelessly. 

 

“We are, I think, in a way. Even after all this.”

 

“In a way?”

 

“I never wanted you to die,” Draco breathes, a quiet confession. “And I would never try to crucio you now. I like getting under your skin but there’s a limit we both know exists and if I ever dared to cross it, I certainly hope you’d make me pay for it.” 

 

“Draco I-“ Harry looks up at him, through tangled black bangs, but even his unruly hair can’t hide the some kind of regret or guilt “I’m tired of fighting. I’ve been doing it for years now. Against the whole world it feels like. I can’t do it anymore.” 

 

And Draco understands. 

The past months’ contempt melts away because now he gets it. Harry’s got his own demons. How selfish he had been- Draco wants to scoff at himself- to think this was all about him.

The blonde holds his tongue. Eyebrows furrowed and a sympathetic stare of the soft grey of a warm rainy day spent buried under blankets. It’s so easy to hate this boy. After all these years of loathsome fists and venomous words. But it’s so  _ right  _ to comfort him. To cup his jaw and rub tears with the pad of his thumb. 

 

“I can’t do it anymore,” Harry’s voice cracks. “I’m so tired all the time and I see the faces of people that died because of me. Everyone’s looking up to me to lead them but I feel like I’m suffocating. I’ve been doing what I had to- for them- for years now. Even if I didn’t want to. I died for this world, Draco. I died for everyone. Isn’t that enough for them? Is it wrong to be selfish?” 

 

“No Harry,” Draco tells him. Because if there’s anything he can’t himself criticize, it’s being self serving. “It’s not wrong. You’re allowed to put yourself before others.” 

 

“Good,” Harry sniffles loudly, trying not to let snot start running down his face but he’s crying so openly now Draco wouldn’t blame him. “Good because I don’t want to fight with you anymore Draco. I don’t care that it makes you comfortable.”

 

It’s only a false sense of security, he wants to say. To pretend that things are just like before the war and they can exist under the pretense that they haven’t lost themselves so greatly, if only for a moment. 

“The thought of anything else is terrifying,” Draco admits. 

He goes to pull his hand away, but Harry grips him lightning fast by the wrist. Stilling, he flexes his fingers. But doesn’t run. 

 

Then Harry yanks him forward, and down a little bit, smashing their mouths together. It’s definitely awkward and unpracticed, but might feel just as right as bickering, a steadily growing flame in his gut. Draco kisses him back viciously, tasting saline and if selfishness had a taste, this would be it. 

 

Harry splays his free hand on Draco’s chest, and despite the layers of fabric, he can practically feel the heat radiating between them. Then he thinks there would be nothing he wants more in this moment than to be skin to skin with this boy. 

Stumbling in the dark, his shoes catch on the stone as Harry backs him up against the closest wall, all the while forcefully kissing him like it’s his sole purpose to make Draco come apart. And come apart he nearly does, groaning when he feels a tongue against his own, his knees buckling, and Harry catches him by the thigh before he slides totally to the ground. Firm fingers dig into his leg through his trousers and he can’t even bring himself to loathe how fucking  _ fit  _ Potter is. 

 

“Wait-“ he gasps, despite his whole body- dick included- screaming in protest. He tips his head up, gulping a few breaths of air, and when he comes back down Harry is watching him unabashedly, unwaveringly, but still with a hesitation that comes from the fear of hurting his loved ones. 

 

“Did I-?” he starts worriedly, but the blonde shuts down his anxiety. 

 

“You’re fine,” Draco assures him, once then twice, and he stands up fully. Their fingers thread together in a way he hopes is comforting but really, what would he know about that. “I just… don’t want to do this when it’s. When we’re.”

 

“We’re?”

 

“I don’t know,” Draco admits in a quick breath, the frustration beginning to build as a flush creeps up his neck. Only at himself of course, for not being able to find the right words. “Fighting? When I’ve just barely apologized for being an absolute git. When doing this impulsively could hurt us.” 

 

“If you’re apologizing for letting your guilt manifest in its own way, then I owe you an apology too-“

 

“No,” Draco shakes his head wildly. “Remember what you said to me?” he asks, cradling Harry. “When you found me crying over my mother’s letter?”

 

“I…” Harry squints his eyes like he’s trying really hard to think about it. So Draco chuckles, deciding to go easy on him. 

 

“You said,” he presses their foreheads together, hyper aware of the scar tissue of that famous lightning bolt, and the way it feels against his skin. “ _ One day you’ll see me break down and won’t demand an apology for it.” _

 

Harry blinks owlishly at him. “You remember that how?” 

 

Draco grins his shit eating grin as their lips fit together, kissing until his jaw begins to ache and he pours in as much care and- say it-  _ love  _ as he can muster. 

“Because,” he breathes. “I was waiting for the day you cried in front of me so we could call it even.” 

 

“You  _ git.”  _

Harry smacks his shoulder and suddenly they’re laughing, deep and loud and carefree. Two boys screwed over by a war, a pile of limbs on the stone as they sink down, snickering and wiping tears from their eyes. And pinned to the floor in an alcove probably isn’t the best place to be snogged. But Harry’s strewn on top of him, lips on lips and hands up shirts and despite himself Draco can’t stop smiling. Because something has fit together inside him, like a missing puzzle piece. Kissing Harry Potter feels like magic. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi everyone, sorry for the delay on this. i’ve been going through some stuff personally including a small relapse of depression and changing how i think about love. coincidentally that was the perfect mixture to make me hesitate in writing this.   
> but i hope it’s ok. maybe it’s rushed. i did my best to give these boys a realistic but hopeful ending. i didn’t feel the need to drag this on. let me know what you think, if there are any spelling errors, and come y’all to me @ my tumblr ‘kidcarma’ if you want

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! Thanks for reading. This is mostly experimental writing to practice interactions between these two, and my first HP fic so! Let me know what you think, if there's anything I missed in tagging or spelling, and if you want more.


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